In  The 

Footprints 

of  Heine 


V 


Gorman 


LIBRARY 

UNIVtK^TY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

DIEGO 


IN  THE  FOOTPRINTS  OF 
HEINE 


(p.  ITU) 


WALDEINSAMKEIT 


In  The  Footprints 
of  Heine 

BY  HENRY  JAMES  FORMAN 


With  Illustrations  by 
WALTER  KING  STONE 


Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

Boston  &  New  York :  The 

Riverside  Press  Cambridge 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,   1910,   BY  HENRY  JAMES  FORMAN 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  IQIO 


TO 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

WHO  FIRST  TAUGHT  ME  TO  LOVE  HEINE 

THIS  BOOK  IS  GRATEFULLY  AND 

CORDIALLY  INSCRIBED 


Wer  den  Dicbter  will  verstebeny 
Muss  in  Dicbter s  Lande  geben. 

GOETHE. 


Contents 

I.  The  Passionate  Pilgrim        ••••.! 

II.    Steps  of  Promise 13 

III.  On  the  Golden  Uplands      .        .        .       .21 

IV.  The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode       ...     36 
V.  The  Lady  of  the  Diligence  ....     53 

VI.  Pisgah  Sight 70 

VII.  The  Enchanted  Hill  Man    ....  83 

VIII.  The  Hartz  Air-Cure 103 

IX.  Goslar  the  Glorious 120 

X.  The  Throne  of  Barbarossa  .       .       .       .136 

XI.  Forest  Sanctuary 167 

XII.  The  Valley  of  Ochre 179 

XIII.  Vanity  Fair 187 

XIV.  The  Wild  Huntsman 196 

XV.  Witches'  Trail 207 

XVI.    The  Brocken  .       .       .       .       .       .       .221 

XVII.    The  Princess  Use 242 


Illustrations 

Waldeinsamkeit  (p.  175)  .  .  .  .  Frontispiece 
Heine's  Lodgings  at  Gottingen  (5 3  Weenderstrasse)  8 
The  Way  to  Lerbach  ......  62 

Goslar  the  Glorious 100 

A  Little  Backwater  at  Goslar 138 

The  Kaiserhaus  at  Goslar 160 

The  Valley  of  Ochre 184 

Harzburg:  Where  the  Wild  Huntsman  Roams    .  198 

Toiling  up  the  Brocken 218 

The  Castle  of  Wernigerode 252 

From  drawings  by  Walter  King  Stone 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   PASSIONATE   PILGRIM 

Semen  Wanderstab  er griff  er 
Jetzo  und  verliess  die  Hauptstadt. 

HEINE. 

AFTER  fifteen  years  of  dreaming  and 
an  eternity  in  the  cars  from  the  Hook 
of  Holland  I  found  myself  actually  in  Gb't- 
tingen,  my  point  of  departure  for  the  Hartz. 
The  doors  of  my  heart  opened  suddenly  to 
a  flood  of  rich,  boyish  enthusiasm  as  I  sat  in 
my  room  at  the  "  Krone,"  trying  with  diffi- 
culty to  realize  that  at  last  I  was  about  to 
begin  the  journey  that  had  brought  peace, 
as  well  as  joy,  to  Heine,  Goethe,  Chamisso, 
and  to  so  many  others  who  sought  to  com- 
bine beauty  with  solitude.  Now  that  I  was 
within  a  day's  walk  from  the  Hartz  region, 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

no  artist  could  have  painted  scenes  so  vivid  or 
so  beautiful  as  those  depicted  by  my  yearn- 
ing imagination.  The  hills  and  the  pines 
and  the  castle  ruins,  the  mountain  torrents, 
the  homely  natives,  their  picturesque  le- 
gends and  customs,  —  I  hungered  for  them 
all.  My  one  concern  was  lest  any  of  the 
beauty  should  fade  before  my  coming.  It 
behooved  me  to  start  at  once,  and  much  re- 
mained to  be  done.  I  walked  forth  into  the 
streets  of  Gottingen. 

"Gottingen,"  says  Heine,  "looks  its  best 
when  you  have  turned  your  back  upon  it." 
To  me  it  was  almost  beautiful.  A  peaceful 
venerable  city  it  seemed,  with  an  air  of  quiet 
wisdom  about  it,  much  like  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman who  has  lived  chiefly  in  the  study, 
Faust  before  the  temptation  of  Mephistoph- 
eles.  But  little  traffic  disturbed  the  spacious 
quietude  of  Weenderstrasse.  Quaint  gables 
and  old-fashioned  balconies  overhung  the 
roomy  pavements.  Serene  young  men  were 

2 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 

strolling  leisurely  about,  doffing  straw  hats 
of  studied  shapelessness  to  equally  serene 
young  women.  Mild  and  placid  faces  showed 
among  the  wares  displayed  in  the  shop  win- 
dows, and  the  many  booksellers'  establish- 
ments leavened  the  whole  effect  with  a  re- 
deeming dignity,  even  as  the  colored  caps 
of  the  students  roaming  proudly  hither  and 
thither  cast  a  kind  of  glamour  on  the  com- 
monplace townsfolk. 

My  business  at  that  particular  hour  was 
to  purchase  a  knapsack  and  other  equipment 
for  my  journey.  The  bookseller,  from  whom 
I  bought  that  excellent  guide-book,  "  Mey- 
er's Hartz,"  directed  me  to  his  favorite 
clothier. 

"  The  Herr  undoubtedly  desires  the  best," 
he  suggested  with  an  air  at  once  grave  and 
insinuating,  like  a  family  banker  recom- 
mending an  investment ;  "  then  be  pleased 
to  go  to  Morck.  He  has  the  best  costumes 
in  Gottingen,  and  is  an  honest  man  to  boot." 

3 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Morck  was  as  good  as  the  bookseller's 
word.  Though  my  choice  was  made  quickly, 
he  ordered  his  apprentice  to  exhibit  innu- 
merable costumes,  being  apparently  bent 
upon  showing  the  stranger  that  even  here  in 
little  Gdttingen  stood  an  emporium  of  met- 
ropolitan proportions.  In  all  those  clothes 
the  prevailing  characteristic  was  a  girth  far 
too  generous  for  the  slender  American. 

"  They  are  obviously  built  with  the  Gdt- 
tingen citizen  in  mind/'  I  ventured  lightly. 

"That  is  how  we  are  in  this  locality,'* 
said  the  clothier  with  quiet  dignity,  and 
cheerfully  offered  to  change  the  girth. 

"It  is  scarcely  necessary,  however,"  he 
added  gravely,  after  a  pause,  "if  the  Herr 
is  to  remain  in  Gottingen." 

"I  am  going  to  walk  in  the  Hartz," 
said  I. 

"Ah,  then  the  girth  must  be  changed," 
he  concluded.  "  You  gain  no  weight  in 
climbing  mountains." 

4 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 

I  hastened  away  to  another  shop  to  pro- 
cure a  knapsack.  How  many  times  had  I 
not  pictured  myself,  staffin  hand  and  slightly 
stooping  under  just  such  a  knapsack,  disap- 
pearing into  the  bosom  of  a  mysterious  for- 
est in  the  Hartz.  Of  such  knapsacks  there 
was  now  a  lavish  display  in  the  shop  I  en- 
tered. I  must  have  had  what  philosophers 
call  a  priori  knowledge  of  them,  for  I  real- 
ized I  had  never  seen  one  before.  I  touched 
the  greenish  pouch  with  almost  trembling 
fingers,  and  the  saturnine  damsel  who  con- 
ducted the  sale  must  have  seen  that  she 
could  ask  any  price  she  chose.  But  Got- 
tingen  is  of  a  hopeless  honesty. 

Darkness  was  falling  swiftly  when  I  re- 
turned to  the  hotel  tired  but  happy,  and  quite 
provided  with  the  needful  things  for  my 
journey.  Strains  of  martial  music  came  sud- 
denly floating  through  my  window,  and  I 
arose  to  meet  them  upon  the  balcony  over- 
hanging Weenderstrasse.  A  regiment  of  foot 

5 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

was  returning  to  barracks  from  a  day's  target 
practice;  the  thud,  thud  of  the  rhythmic 
feet  fell  pleasantly  upon  ears  still  throbbing 
with  the  din  and  clatter  of  a  day  on  the  rail- 
way, and  the  color  of  their  uniform  was 
grateful  to  tired  eyes.  The  short  under-waiter, 
who  fancied  he  could  speak  English,  came 
running  up  to  call  my  attention  to  the  spec- 
tacle. 

"  Do  you  see  how  their  arms  all  swing  like 
one  arm  ? "  he  spluttered  excitedly.  "  They 
are  fine  Kerlsy  not  true?"  Afterwards  this 
poor  lad  told  me  that  he  was  flat-footed,  and 
by  consequence  had  been  rejected  as  a  re- 
cruit; he  could  never  become  one  of  the 
Kerls  in  the  ranks.  The  shop  girls  were  all 
upon  the  pavement  gazing  and  smiling  on 
the  soldiers,  and  even  the  most  stolid  of  the 
citizens  stood  still  and  reviewed  the  files  of 
marching  men  with  calm,  bovine  speculation. 
The  little  flat-footed  waiter  looked  with 
longing  eyes  now  at  the  soldiers  passing  by, 

6 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 

and  now  at  the  bright-eyed  girls.  But  from 
the  girls  there  was  never  a  look  for  him. 

A  little  later  I  heard  him  in  the  court- 
yard jeering  with  bitterness  in  his  voice  at 
the  "  boots  "  and  one  or  two  others  of  the 
serving  lads  for  the  poverty  of  their  lot. 

"  As  for  me/'  said  he,  "  I  shall  go  to 
America  or  to  England,  and  easily  make 
three  thousand  marks  a  year.  There  is  no 
police  there.  Everything  is  free  —  not  like 
here." 

"I  wish  I  could  come,  too,"  wistfully 
murmured  one  mild,  impressionable  lad. 

"And  I,  no!"  stout  little  boots  replied 
with  spirit.  "  I  shall  stay  here,  and  when  the 
time  comes  I  shall  be  a  soldier  like  those  fine 
Kerls  in  the  ranks." 

The  flat-footed  waiter  winced. 

The  next  day  broke  so  clear  and  cool  that 
had  it  not  been  a  Sunday  I  should  have  felt 
moved  to  depart  that  morning.  As  it  was,  I 
resolved  to  wait  until  the  Monday,  and  to  look 

7 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

in  the  meanwhile  upon  Gottingen.  I  drove 
about  the  speckless  city,  gazing  my  fill  upon 
the  ugly  University  buildings,  the  venerable 
Aula,  the  Anatomical  Institute  with  its  mon- 
strous collection  of  skulls  made  by  a  man 
bearing  the  pastoral  name  of  Blumenbach. 
The  white  houses  surrounded  by  glistening 
verdure  on  that  brilliant  morning  gave  to 
northern  Gottingen  an  almost  tropical  ap- 
pearance, both  refreshing  and  alluring.  But 
that  was  in  the  newer  streets  that  must  have 
arisen  since  Heine  made  his  characterization. 
Handsomestatues  decorate  thepublic  squares, 
and  the  most  graceful  of  these  adornments 
is  the  Goose  Girl  Fountain  in  front  of  the 
Ratbaus.  That  sweet  maiden  with  her  geese, 
whom  Jacob  and  Wilhelm  Grimm  have 
brought  from  Fairyland  to  the  heart  of 
childhood,  would  surely  have  placated  even 
Heine. 

That  day   even    drowsy   Gottingen   was 
moved  to  gayety.  That  is  to  say,  the  inhabi- 

8 


HEINE'S  LODGINGS  AT  GOTTINGEN 

53  Weenderstrasse 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 

tants,  male  and  female,  ponderous  and  slow, 
kept  moving  up  and  down  Weenderstrasse, 
gazing  stolidly  and  aimlessly  before  them. 
They  retraced  their  steps  often,  so  that  in  the 
course  of  half  an  hour  the  same  faces  passed 
you  several  times,  like  supers  in  a  play.  The 
droscbkes  behaved  similarly,  and,  though 
there  were  only  two  or  three  of  them,  they 
passed  and  repassed  so  often  that  the  unob- 
servant might  have  concluded  the  town  to 
be  alive  with  them. 

In  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  I  myself  joined 
the  loitering  throng,  sauntered  along  the 
ramparts  close  to  the  Leine  River,  and  gazed 
upon  the  modest,  simple,  one-storied  house 
where  the  Iron  Chancellor  lived  in  his  stu- 
dent days.  A  solitary  mongrel  dog,  which 
came  wandering  that  way,  stopped  beside 
me  for  a  moment,  he  too  gazing  upward. 
For  we  both  knew  well  that  of  the  two,  the 
statue  of  Bismarck  in  the  square  and  the 
house  in  Rothstrasse,  this  was  the  rarer  me- 

9 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

morial.  But  Gottingen  surged  toward  the 
statue.  Upon  returning  to  Weenderstrasse  I 
felt  in  my  heart  a  pleasant  pang  of  gratitude 
to  Gottingen  when  at  number  8,  my  eye  fell 
upon  a  tablet  to  the  memory  of  our  own 
historian,  George  Bancroft,  who  dwelt  here 
in  his  student  years.  Almost  next  door  stands 
the  square,  silent,  three-story  house  where 
the  brothers  Grimm,  princes  of  word-lore 
and  Fairyland,  had  lived  for  near  upon  ten 
years.  On  a  gabled  house  of  many  windows 
across  the  way  is  inscribed  the  name  of 
Goethe,  who  lodged  there  in  1801,  when 
he  wrote  his  "Farbenlehre."  I  wondered 
whether  the  tobacconist's  shop  under  these 
rooms  had  been  there  in  Goethe's  day,  and 
whether  it  was  in  the  least  disquieting  to  the 
poet.  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  another 
familiar  name  in  Weenderstrasse,  and  a  few 
doors  from  it,  at  number  53,  my  pulse  beat 
quickly  as  I  beheld  the  two  words  "  Hein- 
rich  Heine.'* 

10 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 

The  somewhat  crumbling  old  house,  of 
brown  stone,  seems  to  nod  toward  the  pass- 
ers-by in  a  pleasant,  friendly  manner.  And 
what  though  a  tailor's  shop  occupies  the 
ground  story,  and  though  the  house  itself 
is  not  beautiful,  I  felt  a  nameless  resentment 
against  all  who  passed  without  so  much  as 
a  look  at  the  name  above  them.  A  saddler 
now  dwells  in  the  low-ceiled  rooms  where 
the  poet  nearly  a  century  ago  dreamed  his 
wildest  dreams,  wrote  some  of  his  most  be- 
loved lines,  and  cursed  the  study  of  jurispru- 
dence. Only  the  sun  falling  on  the  panes  and 
the  flowers  in  the  window  spoke  of  Heine 
the  poet  in  that  mansion,  —  Heine  the  lover, 
the  singer  of  nature,  of  joy,  but  chiefly  of 
sorrow. 

From  that  door  it  was  that  he  escaped 
nearly  a  hundred  years  ago  into  the  soul- 
reviving  Hartz,  and  to  this  day  men  the 
world  over  follow  his  footsteps  in  their 
dreams,  and  dream,  at  least  in  their  youth, 

ii 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

of  following  in  the  flesh.  My  heart  filled 
with  gratitude  at  the  thought  that  on  the 
morrow  I,  of  the  happy  minority,  should  set 
out  on  precisely  that  magical  journey. 


Steps  of  Promise 

CHAPTER   II 

STEPS  OP  PROMISE 

Gaben  mir  Rat  und  gute  Lehren^ 

Uberschutteten  mich  mit  Ehren. 

HEINE. 

THE  next  morning  it  was  my  intention 
to  rise  at  five  o'clock  and  begin  my 
journey  so  early  as  to  outstrip  the  very  sun 
in  his  course.  My  programme  was  to  walk 
from  six  until  ten  or  possibly  eleven ;  then, 
after  a  siesta  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  to 
walk  again  from  half  past  three  or  four  until 
seven.  But  such  is  the  power  of  habit  that 
not  once  during  my  journey  did  I  quite 
square  with  that  programme.  Even  when  I 
did  awake  early,  either  with  assistance  or 
without,  a  sudden  clarity  and  keenness 
seemed  to  penetrate  my  mind,  and  I  saw  that 
the  plan  of  early  rising  which  had  seemed 

13 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

so  wise  and  sound  the  day  before  was  a  piece 
of  unspeakable  folly.  Was  I  not  on  a  plea- 
sure trip?  Why  hurry?  Feverish  haste,  the 
very  bane  of  America  that  I  was  here  to  es- 
cape for  a  little  while,  was  pursuing  me  like 
a  crime  even  to  these  remote  parts,  and  mak- 
ing life  a  burden.  I  thanked  my  stars  that 
the  freshness  of  early  morning  had  come  to 
my  aid,  and  helped  me  to  see  and  conquer 
this,  our  national  infirmity.  And  so  I  turned 
over  and  slept  on. 

I  did  not  arise  until  seven  on  the  morn- 
ing of  my  departure.  The  bath,  which  was 
a  wonderful  affair,  equipped  with  its  own 
boiler  and  stoker,  had  been  waiting  since  five 
o'clock,  and  the  first  sound  I  heard  on  wak- 
ing was  the  thud  of  the  engine  in  the  bath- 
room. A  general  air  of  subdued  excitement 
hung  about  the  corridor,  and,  as  I  entered 
upon  the  scene,  a  council  of  war  was  being 
held  between  the  engineer  and  the  head  and 
other  waiters  as  to  whether  the  engine  had 


Steps  of  Promise 

not  better  be  stopped.  The  engineer  com- 
plained that  his  fuel  was  almost  exhausted 
and  that  duties  were  awaiting  him  in  the 
kitchen.  But  the  waiter  assured  him  I  was 
imminent  because  of  the  journey  and  that 
he  must  not  lose  heart.  My  arrival  cut  short 
the  colloquy,  and  the  waiter  urged  me  to 
enjoy  this  bath  to  the  fullest  extent,  to  make 
the  most  of  it  and  then  take  a  tender  fare- 
well of  it,  for  I  should  probably  not  look 
upon  its  like  again  in  the  Hartz.  Despite 
that  threat  I  did  not  dally  long,  for  once  fully 
awake,  the  advantages  of  an  early  start  again 
stood  out  as  something  desirable.  Hurriedly 
I  climbed  into  my  rough  mountaineering 
clothes,  and  after  a  hasty  breakfast  proceeded 
to  finish  the  packing  of  my  knapsack.  The 
peculiar  type  of  knapsack  in  use  on  these 
journeys  is  very  difficult  to  describe.  It  is 
made  of  a  greenish-brown  waterproof  cloth 
and  purses  up  like  a  tobacco  pouch.  If  you 
are  wise  and  do  not  put  too  much  into  it. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

the  bag  shapes  itself  to  your  back  and  dis- 
tributes your  burden  very  comfortably.  If 
you  are  not  wise  and  attempt  to  carry  all  that 
the  guide-book  recommends,  Christian's 
pack  was  but  a  feather  to  what  your  load 
becomes,  unless,  as  Mrs.  Malaprop  might 
have  said,  Christian  and  Hercules  were  two 
gentlemen  in  one. 

Personally  I  did  not  intend  to  follow  the 
guide-book.  I  took  no  cloak,  no  umbrella, 
no  medical  outfit,  no  tailor's  outfit  —  all  of 
which  are  recommended  by  the  book.  But 
I  put  in  a  couple  of  changes  of  linen,  an  extra 
pair  of  shoes,  some  writing  materials,  two 
or  three  books,  a  tin  of  tobacco  and  a  pipe, 
a  pair  of  hairbrushes,  one  or  two  other  toilet 
articles,  and  some  rolls  of  photographic  films. 
The  razor-edge  was  still  upon  my  enthusi- 
asm, but  the  knapsack  felt  somewhat  heavy. 
This  the  head  waiter  assured  me  was  an  error 
on  my  part.  The  pack  was  not  at  all  heavy. 
It  was  abnormally  light. 

16 


Steps  of  Promise 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  asked.  "Did 
you  ever  carry  such  a  load  for  two  weeks?" 

He  had  not,  he  said.  But  the  year  before 
an  Englishman  had  set  out  from  that  hotel 
on  a  similar  journey,  and  his  pack  was  at 
least  twice  as  heavy  as  mine.  He  carried  two 
extra  pair  of  boots,  a  quantity  of  food,  and 
certain  flasks  and  bottles.  This  was  a  conso- 
lation, but  not  an  important  one.  I  com- 
promised by  unpursing  my  sack  for  the 
twentieth  time  and  extracting  Kinglake's 
Eotben,  which  I  had  fondly  cherished  as  a 
traveling  companion.  So  Kinglake  went  by 
the  board.  I  strapped  on  the  pack,  slung  my 
camera  over  my  shoulder,  and  now  I  was 
ready  to  start. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,  good-bye,"  to  the 
head  waiter,  to  the  second  head  waiter,  to 
the  valet,  to  the  boots,  to  everybody  a  silver 
farewell,  and  from  everybody  a  pleasant  little 
friendly  speech  well  worth  the  silver.  The 
flat-footed  humbug  who  fancied  he  could 

17 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

speak  English  paraded  his  incompetence  to 
the  last  with  some  absurd  combination  that 
sounded  like,  "  Go  out  coome  not  true  soon 
back,"  and  looked  ostentatiously  about  for 
the  effect  upon  the  others.  I  had  not  the 
heart  to  undeceive  them.  I  gave  him  good- 
bye in  English  and  marched  a  way  from  the 
"Krone "at  last. 

I  thought  I  had  departed.  Before  I  had 
gone  three  steps  the  head  waiter,  excited  and 
hatless,  ran  after  me  and  called  my  name. 
Forgive  him,  but  he  had  something  to  pro- 
pose. Osterode  was  my  goal  to-day,  was  it 
not  ?  Well,  then  he  knew  a  route  that  not 
only  offered  more  attractive  scenery  than  the 
one  I  meant  to  follow,  but  was  several  kilo- 
meters shorter  besides.  With  a  zeal  worthy 
of  better  things  he  pleaded  passionately  for 
this  "better"  route, while  I  stood  inwardly 
fretting  at  the  loss  of  time.  His  staff  of  un- 
der-waiters  and  servitors,  who  should  have 
been  at  a  worthier  employment,  stood  about 


Steps  of  Promise 

open-mouthed,  looking  from  one  of  us  to  the 
other.  I  realized  that  decisive  action  was 
necessary.  Before  the  flat-footed  waiter,  who 
was  lurking  in  the  neighborhood  with  a 
dark  elucidation  in  his  English,  could  open 
his  head,  I  quickly  informed  them  that  I 
meant  to  make  the  journey  along  the  same 
route  as  Heine  had  made  it,  and  that,  be- 
sides, it  was  a  wager.  What  Heine  had  to 
do  with  it  they  could  not  see,  but  the  lie  in 
time  of  hesitation  had  saved  me.  A  wager 
was  another  matter.  If  the  Herr  had  made 
a  wager  of  course  he  had  to  go  that  way,  ir- 
respective of  the  lures  and  blessings  of  Some- 
where Else.  The  waiter  had  yet  to  learn 
how  much  such  lures  depended  on  the  mind 
of  the  beholder.  He  bowed.  They  all  bowed. 
There  we  stood  in  a  little  clump  on  the 
pavement  before  the  "Krone."  Two  or 
three  stolid  citizens  of  Gottingen  who  hap- 
pened to  pass  by  during  this  colloquy  were 
so  excited  that  one  of  them  almost  turned 

19 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

round  to  look  at  us  again.  But  as  that  was  too 
much  work  for  a  summer's  day,  he  thought 
better  of  it  and  rolled  on.  Again  farewell, 
and  now  I  was  really  on  my  way. 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

CHAPTER   III 
ON  THE  GOLDEN  UPLANDS 

Das  alles  siebt  so  Iiistig  ausy 
So  wohl  gewachsen  das  BauerbauSj 
So  morgentaulich  Gras  und  Baum^ 
So  herrlich  blau  der  Berge  Saum. 

GOETHE. 

THE  sun  had  not  waited  to  rise  at  my 
departure,  but  was  already  in  the 
heavens  at  the  nine  o'clock  height.  Those 
heavens,  by  the  way,  were  doing  all  that  in 
them  lay  to  give  heart  to  the  solitary  trav- 
eler. A  sky  of  blue  so  tender  and  serene  I 
could  not  remember  anywhere  else.  Its 
speckless  arch  seemed  to  cover  a  world 
without  sorrow  or  turmoil,  without  squalor 
or  pain.  Black  care  that  so  many  writers, 
from  Horace  down,  have  described  as  perched 
behind  the  traveler  was  nowhere  in  my 

21 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

vicinity.  The  golden  sun  poured  down  its 
limitless  flood  of  light  upon  the  quiet  city 
as  I  walked  out  toward  the  Weender  gate, 
penetrated  with  a  feeling  of  boyish  irre- 
sponsibility and  gladness.  I  was  not  flee- 
ing from  the  City  of  Destruction,  but  walk- 
ing straight  into  the  land  of  joy  and  Heart's 
Desire.  The  burden  which  was  upon  my 
back  did  not  oppress  me  as  yet,  and  every 
sight  and  sound  seemed  to  have  a  delicious 
freshness  about  it. 

Past  nine  though  it  was,  Gottingen  was 
scarcely  astir  as  yet.  Shops  were  still  being 
opened  by  seemingly  drowsy  shopmen.  A 
milkman's  wagon  rattled  along  the  cobble- 
stones ;  a  butcher's  boy  was  briskly  urging  a 
Dalmatian  hound  harnessed  to  a  meat-bas- 
ket on  wheels;  a  tiny  mouse-gray  donkey 
was  nonchalantly  drawing  a  heavy  two- 
wheeled  cart,  with  a  strapping  man  in  it. 
I  was  touched  with  pity  for  the  poor  little 
beast,  though  the  little  beast  itself  seemed 

22 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

wholly  unconcerned  and  at  peace  with  the 
bright  world.  Small  children  with  knap- 
sacks of  their  own  were  strolling  unwillingly 
to  the  summer  school  and  philosophically 
munching  bread  and  butter  meant  for  a 
later  hour.  Toward  the  city  gate  the  street 
began  to  die  out,  and  soon  it  perished  ut- 
terly, and  was  merged  into  the  great  white 
highway  that  swept  nobly  on,  bordered  by 
green  meadows  and  yellow  wheat-fields, 
until  it  was  lost  beyond  the  horizon. 

A  short  distance  beyond  the  gate  lies  the 
tiny  hamlet  of  Weende  that  gives  the  gate 
its  name;  thence  the  narrow  road,  straight 
as  a  dart,  leads  on  to  Bovenden.  Bovenden, 
according  to  Heine,  was  of  old  selected  by 
students  for  their  duels  and  was  therefore 
patrolled  by  the  University's  proctors.  These 
gentlemen,  adds  Heine  characteristically, 
also  held  quarantine  without  the  city  gate, 
lest  any  enterprising  young  tutor  should  im- 
port some  new  ideas  into  the  learned  old 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

town.  I  marched  joyfully  along  the  ribbon 
of  springy  footpath  with  the  golden  fields 
of  barley  and  rye  on  either  hand,  alternating 
with  squares  of  soft  green  meadow  land, 
like  some  god's  checkerboard. 

On  the  outskirts  of  Bovenden,  which  is 
nearly  all  outskirts,  I  met  an  aged  man  with 
a  great  gray  beard  covering  his  bosom  and 
in  his  gait  a  stately  senatorial  dignity.  He 
seemed  a  man  to  trust  and  confide  in.  My 
breakfast  at  Gottingen,  due  to  the  excite- 
ment of  departure,  had  been  light.  I  felt  a 
little  ashamed  to  be  hungry  at  ten  o'clock 
of  the  morning,  after  walking  exactly  an 
hour.  Nevertheless  I  turned  to  the  stranger, 
gave  him  good  morning,  and  asked  him  for 
the  best  inn  at  Bovenden. 

"  I  am  going  there  myself,"  said  he,  "  for 
it  is  time  I  had  a  little  musical  refreshment," 
and  in  his  eye  was  a  jolly  twinkle.  What 
musical  refreshment  was  I  did  not  discover 
until  we  entered  the  inn  and  the  old  man 

24 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

poured  himself  a  tiny  liqueur  glass  of 
Schnapps  and  paid  for  it  with  a  small  coin. 
Musicians,  being  generally  poor,  can  afford 
but  little  for  dissipation  ;  that  is  why,  I  sup- 
pose, the  smallest  purchasable  quantity  was 
described  as  musical  by  the  old  man.  He 
was  a  buyer  of  leaf  tobacco,  which  is  abun- 
dantly cultivated  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
observing  that  I  had  unstrapped  my  knap- 
sack with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been 
marching  for  many  hours,  and  ordered 
luncheon,  he  remarked  that  he  must  be  on 
his  rounds,  and  with  a  civil  word  left  me 
alone. 

I  looked  from  the  cosy  inn  parlor  upon 
the  empty  square  about  which  were  grouped 
the  village  church,  the  schoolhouse  and  the 
town  hall.  In  the  centre  was  the  town  pump 
and  watering  trough.  A  dog  lay  sleeping  in 
the  shadow  of  the  church.  Now  and  again 
the  sweet  treble  of  childish  voices  singing 
either  in  the  church  or  in  the  schoolhouse, 

25 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

I  could  not  tell  which,  came  floating  across 
the  square  with  that  haunting,  touching 
quality  that  children's  voices  always  have. 
My  own  childhood  flashed  before  me  and 
with  it  came  the  vision  of  long,  sunny, 
peaceful  days  in  a  green-meadowed  coun- 
try-side that  somehow  blended  with  this 
German  picture  of  deep  tranquillity.  I  felt 
something  catch  at  my  throat;  another  mo- 
ment and  my  sentimental  pilgrimage  would 
have  begun  very  sentimentally  indeed,  but 
the  clangor  of  a  bell  suddenly  brought  me 
out  of  my  reverie  and  there,  beside  the  town 
pump,  stood  the  bellman  with  a  scroll  in 
his  hand.  He  was  the  town  crier,  and  in 
drawling  monotonous  voice  he  read  to  the 
church,  to  the  schoolhouse,  to  the  dozing 
dog,  to  the  empty  square  and  to  me  the  an- 
nouncement that  a  meeting  would  be  held 
that  evening  in  •  the  town  hall  for  the  pur- 
pose of  voting  the  village  taxes.  Every  citi- 
zen probably  knew  of  the  meeting  anyway, 

26 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

but  for  hundreds  of  years  news  had  been 
spread  after  that  fashion  in  Bovenden,  and 
in  such  places  fashions  do  not  change. 

The  townsfolk  were  all  in  the  fields. 
Everybody  was  occupied  excepting  myself. 
I,  in  the  character  of  the  weary  traveler, 
sat  there  guiltily  eating  the  bread  —  or,  ra- 
ther, the  eggs  —  of  idleness.  Could  those 
eggs  have  been  laid  by  merely  earthly  hens  ? 
I  verily  believe  that  we  dwellers  in  cis-At- 
lantic  cities  have  lost  through  inanition  the 
delicate  taste  for  simple  food.  A  pleasant- 
faced  field  laborer  broke  in  upon  these  gus- 
tatory reflections  by  calling  for  Schnapps, 
and  sitting  down  beside  me  with  a  friendly 
greeting.  With  easy  grace  he  plunged  in 
medias  res  by  beginning,  — 

"It  would  not  be  so  bad  but  that  the 
drought  hurts  the  tobacco.  They  have  rain 
in  the  Hartz,"  he  ran  on,  "  and  rain  in  the 
South.  But  here  in  the  valley  of  the  Leine 
we  are  the  last  to  get  it;  and  here  we  de- 

27 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

pend  upon  our  tobacco  crop.  Does  the 
Herr  travel  on  business?'* 

He  spoke  not  as  though  he  were  opening 
a  conversation  but  as  though  he  were  wind- 
ing up  a  comprehensive  reply  to  a  census- 
taker.  I  assured  him  that  I  was  traveling 
solely  for  pleasure.  Then,  to  my  surprise, 
he  grew  somewhat  bitter  and  cynical. 

"  Pleasure,"  said  he  with  a  frown,  "  is  a 
thing  nowhere  found.  People  travel  the 
world  over,  but  health  and  home  is  the  best 
they  can  ever  discover." 

Hastily  I  strapped  my  knapsack  on  my 
back,  paid  my  score  and  left  the  inn.  It 
was  high  noon.  The  sun  was  pretty  warm. 
Before  coming  anywhere  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Hartz,  I  must  still  walk  twelve  kilome- 
ters —  to  Northeim  —  or  at  least  two  hours. 
I  did  what  Heine  doubtless  would  have 
done  had  he  been  able  in  the  year  1824.  I 
moved  quietly  to  the  railway  station  and 
took  a  train  for  Northeim.  Thus  only  could 

28 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

I  gain  the  time  I  had  lost  during  that  day 
by  late  rising  and  slow  marching.  This  man- 
ifestation of  initiative  on  my  part  pleased 
me.  But  as  we  sped  through  the  sunlit 
fields  I  felt  a  little  shamefaced.  A  maiden's 
charm,  however,  soon  made  me  forget  my 
peccadillo. 

She  and  her  father  were  in  the  same  com- 
partment with  me.  She  was  blue-eyed  and 
golden-haired,  and  of  a  bewitching  fascina- 
tion. Before  long  she  had  wormed  out  of 
me  my  name  and  confided  that  hers  was 
Edith.  She  cheered  the  way  with  a  merry 
song  and  her  father  seemed  merely  amused 
in  his  good-natured  German  way  as  she  car- 
ried on  recklessly  with  the  stranger.  She 
made  me  tell  her  my  age;  she  could  have 
made  me  tell  her  anything.  She  told  me 
her  age  also.  She  was  three. 

Northeim  showed  more  animation  than 
any  place  on  the  way  since  I  left  Got- 
tingen.  Children  were  coming  home  from 

29 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

school,  and  here  and  there  a  grown-up  man 
or  woman  would  walk  in  the  street  just  as 
though  they  were  not  figures  in  an  old 
print  or  a  picture  book.  "  Die  Sonne,"  a 
pleasant  inn  that  was  fifty  years  old  when 
Heine  stopped  there,  is  almost  unchanged. 
The  waiter  wore  a  dress  suit  and  there  were 
gas  fixtures  in  the  dining-room,  but  the 
carpet  in  the  corridors,  I  could  have  sworn, 
had  been  laid  in  1775.  Heine  had  tasted 
here  the  first  food  on  his  journey  and  he 
avers  it  was  a  great  improvement  on  the 
stale  academic  courses  set  before  him  at 
Gottingen.  His  wraith  seemed  still  to  be 
hovering  in  "  Die  Sonne/*  and  I  recalled 
how  he  had  solemnly  directed  at  this  place 
a  trio  of  inquiring  travelers  to  the  Hotel 
de  Briihbach,  Gottingen's  university  prison. 
It  was  about  one  o'clock  and  it  seemed  a 
little  too  hot  for  walking.  I  waited  until 
the  sun  was  lower  in  the  heavens  before  I 
resumed  my  march.  Houses  of  the  Six- 

30 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

teenth  and  Seventeenth  centuries  flanked  the 
winding  street  on  both  sides  and  children 
played  about  them  just  as  they  do  about 
our  ramshackle  tenements.  The  church 
that  had  seen  four  centuries  of  worshipers 
come  and  go,  still  flashed  the  soft  wonder- 
ful colors  from  its  stained-glass  windows  as 
it  did  in  1519,  when  it  was  built. 

Once  clear  of  the  town,  I  took,  in  the 
German  vernacular,  "  the  road  manfully  be- 
tween my  legs  "  and  began  to  walk  in  dead 
earnest.  I  had  nearly  fifteen  miles  to  Oste- 
rode  and  the  road  already  began  to  climb 
up  hill.  I  shall  never  forget  that  walk  from 
Northeim.  All  the  sweet,  simple  pictures  of 
summer  that  the  city-pent  heart  yearns  for 
bordered  that  highway.  Fields  of  ripe  yel- 
low wheat  were  swayed  gently  by  the  breeze 
in  golden  music.  Scythe-men  were  swinging 
their  flashing  blades  in  the  oatfields,  while 
the  women  plodding  behind  them  bound 
the  sheaves.  Spans  of  oxen  were  drawing 

3' 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

ploughs  and  frequently  even  cows  could  be 
seen  ploughing  —  which  struck  me  as  un- 
gallant.  An  itinerant  merchant  with  a  little 
house  on  wheels,  a  van  with  a  chimney  and 
a  tiny  window,  came  bowling  along  the  road 
behind  two  stout  horses,  with  his  wife  beside 
him,  and  that  seemed  an  enviable  mode  of 
life.  Beyond  the  fields  on  either  hand  a  range 
of  densely  wooded  hills,  harbingers  of  the 
Hartz,  curtained  the  horizon.  Not  a  single 
cloud  necked  the  soft  blue  expanse  of  the 
heavens,  and  I  felt  wonderfully  free  and 
happy.  Through  my  mind  flashed  the  long 
years  of  waiting  and  hoping  for  this  journey 
through  a  magic  land,  and  the  old  boyish 
dreams  of  achievement  and  joy  and  glory 
began  to  stir  and  waken  as  from  a  long 

sleep. 

"  Steiget  auf  ihr  alten  Traume  !  " 

But  I  did  not  need  to  bid  those  ancient 
dreams  arise,  for  now  they  had  complete  pos- 
session of  me.  Fifteen  years  had  suddenly 

32 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

been  thrust  aside,  and  I  was  a  boy  again.  I 
wonder  how  many  of  us  ever  reflect  upon  the 
wealth  of  dreams  and  visions  that  lies  buried 
in  our  hearts,  if  only  we  could  stop  to  evoke 
them.  Yet,  the  beauty  of  youth,  what  is  it 
but  the  power  and  freshness  to  dream  gen- 
erous, dazzling  dreams  and  to  build  wonder- 
ful air  castles  ?  The  treasure  of  Captain  Kidd 
is  as  nothing  compared  with  this  rich  cache, 
deeply,  too  deeply,  sunk  in  our  own  hearts. 
The  swift  headlong  current  of  life  carries  us 
dizzily  forward  with  never  a  pause  to  think 
on  what  we  have  missed  by  the  way.  And 
perhaps  that  is  a  mercy,  too ;  for  how  many 
would  find  that  they  had  not  utterly  failed 
to  reach  their  true  goal  ? 

I  passed  through  Caltenburg,  which  was 
one  deserted  village  street  with  only  a  few 
ducks  and  hens  in  possession.  At  the  tavern, 
however,  there  were  some  signs  of  life.  The 
inn-keeper  was  noisily  transacting  a  horse 
trade  with  a  befuddled  customer,  while  the 

33 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

inn-keeper's  wife  in  the  short  petticoats  char- 
acteristic of  the  peasants  in  these  parts,  was 
stumping  about  on  her  bony  shanks  and  serv- 
ing refreshments  to  two  other  customers. 
These  were  the  assistant  station-master  of 
Caltenburg  and  some  equally  high  official, 
both  finely  built,  robust  young  men  in  spot- 
less uniforms.  I  have  seen  such  young  men 
in  America  at  the  head  of  great  enterprises. 

"  I  have  been  at  Caltenburg  three  years," 
the  assistant  station-master  was  saying  to  his 
friend  as  they  quaffed  their  beer,  "and  it  is 
high  time  I  was  promoted  and  transferred. 
But  I  see  no  sign  of  any  change."  Yet  he 
did  not  seem  despondent. 

I  sympathized  with  him  nevertheless,  and 
after  drinking  a  glass  of  seltzer  water,  I  pushed 
on  toward  Osterode.  The  roads  began  to  grow 
steeper  and  the  hills  higher.  The  burden  on 
my  back  kept  increasing  in  weight  until  it 
seemed  all  but  intolerable.  The  sun  declined 
rapidly  and  cool  breezes  came  wandering 

34 


On  the  Golden  Uplands 

now  and  again  from  the  distant  hilltops. 
Soon  I  saw  the  red  roofs  of  Osterode  gleam- 
ing under  the  slanting  rays,  and  as  I  entered 
the  main  street  of  the  city  a  ball  of  misty 
fire,  promising  rain  for  the  morrow,  disap- 
peared behind  a  ridge  of  the  hills. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

CHAPTER    IV 
THE  BLACK  DOG  AT  OSTERODE 

Und  das  Ecbo^  wie  die  Sage 
Alter  Zeiten,  ballet  wider. 

GOETHE. 

MY  heart  should  have  been  singing  as  I 
entered  Osterode,  for  I  was  actually 
in  the  Hartz,  the  land  of  a  thousand  le- 
gends, the  goal  of  so  many  youthful  dreams. 
The  chill  air  of  dusk  could  not  have  cooled 
my  joy,  but  my  back  ached  so  sorely  from 
the  load  I  had  borne  all  day,  that  somehow 
I  forgot  to  be  glad.  Weary  and  footsore 
I  entered  the  Hotel  Kaiserhof,  engaged  a 
room  and  fell  limply  upon  the  bed.  Despite 
all  my  fancied  wisdom  I  had  done  what 
nearly  every  foot  traveler  does  on  the  first 
day  :  I  had  walked  too  far  and  carried  too 
much.  I  lay  there  inertly  for  a  space,  the 

36 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

pain  oozing  from  my  body,  and  my  mind 
dully  conscious  of  the  process. 

After  half  an  hour's  rest  hunger  began  to 
animate  me,  and  I  knew  that  I  should  re- 
cover. But  I  was  still  aching  as  I  crept  into 
the  deserted  dining-room  and  made  a  sparse 
meal  of  a  leathern  omelette.  In  this  I  sur- 
passed Heine.  For  when  he  came  here  he 
was  so  tired  he  could  not  eat  at  all,  but  went 
supperless  to  bed  and  dreamt  grotesque  and 
fearful  dreams.  I  stepped  out  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  the  chill  struck  me  so  sharply,  I 
contracted  like  the  mercury  in  a  bulb.  Yet 
somehow  it  made  me  more  comfortable  to 
reflect  that  in  New  York  at  that  moment 
people  were  sweltering  under  an  August  sun. 
But  I  did  not  linger.  The  watery  rays  of  a 
street  lamp  here  and  there  cast  a  cheerless 
light  and  there  seemed  to  be  not  another 
human  being  in  the  street.  I  found  out 
afterwards  that  tales  of  ghosts  and  hobgob- 
lins are  so  numerous  in  Osterode  that  to  this 

37 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

day  inhabitants  are  literally  afraid  to  go 
home  in  the  dark.  Even  the  skeptical  give  a 
certain  credence  to  these  legends,  and  chil- 
dren particularly  are  convinced  that  an  en- 
chanted captain,  in  the  shape  of  a  black  dog, 
nightly  patrols  the  streets  of  Osterode. 

This  nervousness  seemed  premature,  for 
it  was  only  nine  o'clock  and  the  captain  of 
foot,  or  rather  the  black  dog,  with  true  mili- 
tary precision  begins  his  rounds  at  exactly 
eleven  o'clock.  Before  the  ruins  of  an  an- 
cient guardhouse  in  the  fallen  city  wall 
he  makes  his  appearance,  follows  a  definite 
route  every  night  and  disappears  somewhere 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Hartz  communal 
granary.  Should  you  meet  him  on  the  way 
he  is  sure  to  follow  you  to  your  door.  Un- 
less you  speak  to  him  he  will  not  molest 
you.  In  former  days,  when  there  was  sol- 
diery at  Osterode,  this  dog  made  it  his  busi- 
ness to  waken  the  guards  who  fell  asleep 
while  on  duty. 

38 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

Tired  though  I  was,  I  offered  the  credu- 
lous head  waiter,  who  told  me  this  story,  a 
handsome  trinkgeld  if  he  would  accompany 
me  to  the  old  corn  magazine  so  that  we 
might  waylay  the  enchanted  captain. 

"Bcwabrel*1  gasped  the  nervous  little 
waiter,  "not  I,  Herr.  Besides,"  he  added, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  can  tell  the  Herr  what  the 
dog  looks  like ;  he  is  the  image  of  dogs  em- 
ployed by  butchers  to  draw  meat-carts.  I 
have  seen  him  more  than  once." 

That  was  all  well  enough,  I  told  him, 
but  it  was  my  desire  to  ask  the  captain  to 
pose  for  his  photograph  the  next  morning. 
The  waiter  looked  at  me  dubiously  for  a 
moment  and  then  in  soothing  tones  in- 
quired, — 

"  Does  the  Herr  require  anything  for  the 
night?" 

The  Herr  required  a  warm  salt-water  bath 
for  his  aching  back  and  tired  feet ;  after  that 
the  Herr  fell  into  a  sweet  dreamless  sleep 

39 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

that  repaired  all  the  damage  done  by  the 
previous  day's  exertions. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  I  awoke, 
and  even  the  leaden  sky  failed  to  depress 
me.  For  under  that  sky  lay  a  trim  little 
city,  sombre  indeed,  but  with  a  certain  tone 
and  color  befitting  its  picturesque  if  gloomy 
history  of  many  long  centuries.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  Twelfth  Century  it  was  already  a 
thriving  village,  and  a  hundred  years  later, 
when  it  became  the  property  of  Henry  the 
Lion,  it  was  a  town  of  some  pretensions. 
For  about  four  centuries  after  that  it  served 
as  the  seat  of  the  Dowager  Duchesses  of 
Grubenhagen,  and  that,  according  to  some, 
is  the  reason  so  many  old  wives'  tales  cluster 
about  Osterode.  For  a  while,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  it  was  even 
a  member  of  the  Hansa  league,  but  misfor- 
tune overtook  the  little  city.  The  greedy 
eyes  of  the  robber  barons  perched  on  the 
surrounding  mountains  ever  turned  to  the 

40 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

thriving  town,  nestling  below  in  the  green 
lap  of  the  Soese  valley,  and  Osterode  never 
had  time  to  recover  from  the  many  predatory 
incursions. 

The  citizens  of  Osterode  were  not  always 
afraid  of  the  dark.  Once,  in  1510,  they 
went  so  far  as  to  pitch  Heiso  Freienhagen, 
their  burgomaster,  out  of  a  window.  The 
mayor  had  suddenly  become  distasteful  to 
them  because  he  had  suffered  Jacob  Lurdes, 
his  foster-son,  a  dashing,  popular  rogue,  to 
be  put  in  the  stocks.  Jacob's  friends  one  day 
rushed  into  the  Rathaus,  seized  Freienhagen 
and  threw  him  from  the  window  upon  a 
clump  of  upward-pointing  spears,  obligingly 
held  by  some  others  of  Jacob's  admirers. 
That  was  another  opportunity  for  the  Duke 
and  his  predatory  friends  to  come  marching 
down  from  Herzberg  to  teach  Osterode  bet- 
ter manners  toward  the  powers  that  be.  Siege 
and  fire  and  pestilence  are  common  factors 
in  the  history  of  most  of  these  Hartz  towns 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

and  the  names  of  such  generals  as  Tilly, 
Merode,  and  Pappenheim  are  still  spoken 
with  dread  in  the  mountains.  They  sing 
songs  now  in  Germany  about  "  the  jolly  Pap- 
penheimers,"  but  those  rollicking  blades  had 
a  way  of  encamping  round  a  town  and  de- 
manding forty  thousand  thalers  or  promising, 
as  an  alternative,  ruin  and  utter  destruction. 
Merode,  Pappenheim's  aide,  was  the  last 
of  these  besiegers.  When  he  made  his  de- 
mand, in  1631,  Osterode  sent  its  children  to 
him  with  a  prayer  and  conjured  him  "  for  the 
sake  of  Christ  His  Blood  and  Passion"  to  let 
them  depart  the  city,  and  they  would  leave 
all  their  goods  behind  them.  Merode  an- 
swered with  cannon.  Since  then  nothing  else 
has  ever  happened  to  Osterode. 

As  I  sat  down  to  breakfast  with  the  appro- 
priate nod  and  mumbling  of  "Mahlzeit!" 
to  two  or  three  other  travelers,  it  began  to 
rain  smartly.  Each  of  us  bestowed  a  gloomy 
look  upon  the  window  and  then  we  fell  to 

42 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

our  breakfasts  in  silence.  None  of  us  mat- 
tered one  iota  to  the  others,  and  this  thought 
gave  me  a  kind  of  pleasure.  All  the  outer 
envelopes  that  clothe  your  identity  and  make 
the  personality  that  you  show  to  the  world, 
disappear  in  this  sort  of  solitary  travel.  Haz- 
litt  in  one  essay  exclaims,  "Oh!  it  is  great 
to  shake  off  the  trammels  of  the  world  and 
of  public  opinion  —  to  lose  our  importunate, 
tormenting,  everlasting  personal  identity  in 
the  elements  of  nature,  and  become  the  crea- 
ture of  the  moment,  clear  of  all  ties  —  to 
hold  to  the  universe  only  by  a  dish  of  sweet- 
breads, and  to  owe  nothing  but  the  score 
of  the  evening  —  and  no  longer  seeking  for 
applause  and  meeting  with  contempt,  to  be 
known  by  no  other  title  than  the  Gentleman 
in  the  Parlour!"  It  is  a  long  exclamation 
but  the  sentiment  is  sound;  for  at  that  par- 
ticular moment  I  felt  myself  holding  to  the 
universe  by  no  more  than  the  ubiquitous 
omelette.  The  omelette  for  breakfast,  the 

43 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

schnitzel  for  all  other  meals  henceforth  be- 
came my  daily  fare  in  the  Hartz,  and  even 
now  I  occasionally  dream  of  knights  and 
ladies  within  glittering  castle  walls  setting 
golden  platters  of  both  these  dishes  before 
me  and  I,  with  horror  in  my  voice,  vowing 
that  I  had  already  consumed  my  share  of 
them. 

The  rain  did  not  seem  in  the  least  discon- 
certing. I  wished  to  go  on,  naturally,  but  if 
I  could  not,  why  then,  I  could  not.  Osterode 
was  doubtless  as  good  as  any  other  place.  I 
went  up  to  my  room,  pulled  out  a  book  from 
the  knapsack,  and  attempted  to  read.  But 
that  is  not  easy  when  you  are  in  a  new,  strange 
place  with  people  about  you  whom  you  have 
never  seen  before,  will  never  in  all  proba- 
bility see  again,  and  this  is  your  one  oppor- 
tunity to  learn  something  of  them.  My  at- 
tention wandered  from  the  book  to  the  red 
roofs,  the  warm  color  of  which  seemed  to 
mitigate  the  cheerless  picture  of  a  mountain 

44 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

town  overhung  by  the  passage  of  storm.  Soon 
I  descended  to  the  cafe  and  took  up  a  news- 
paper. An  old  gentleman  with  a  ruddy  face 
stamped  with  both  shrewdness  and  credulity, 
and  a  beard  resembling  that  of  Uncle  Sam 
in  the  cartoons,  broad-backed  and  corpulent 
in  figure,  glanced  at  me  once  or  twice  over 
his  spectacles  and,  apparently  making  sure 
that  I  was  a  stranger,  remarked  upon  the 
weather.  I  insulted  the  weather  responsively 
and  soon  we  were  deep  in  talk  concerning 
Osterode.  City  father  or  official  of  a  sort 
though  he  seemed  to  be,  he  knew  little  of 
the  early  history  of  his  city,  but  he  was  full 
of  its  legends.  He  was  a  firm  believer  in  the 
capacity  of  some  people  to  enchant  others, 
or  to  fix  them  to  a  certain  spot  by  means  of 
magic  spells.  He  told  me  many  tales  of  men 
possessed  of  this  magical  gift  who  had  per- 
manently banished  various  spooks  that  made 
certain  houses  uninhabitable. 

"  The  story  of  the  headsman  of  Osterode," 
45 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

he  went  on,  "is  well  known  in  the  Hartz. 
That  lad  was  not  only  clever  at  his  trade,  but 
he  could  also  cast  spells.  Sometimes  he  would 
do  it  merely  for  the  entertainment  of  his 
friends.  Once  he  saw  two  gossiping  women 
pass  just  as  the  cows  were  being  driven  out 
to  pasture  in  the  morning.  He  cast  a  spell 
upon  those  women,  and  they  stood  rooted  to 
the  spot  until  the  return  of  the  herd  at  sun- 
down, so  they  had  their  fill  of  gossip."  The 
old  man  chuckled  as  he  pictured  the  pre- 
dicament of  the  two  tabbies. 

"  Another  time,"  he  continued, "  on  a  Sat- 
urday night,  a  thief  was  stealing  cabbages 
from  the  headsman's  kitchen  garden.  Just 
as  the  rogue  was  scaling  the  wall  to  escape 
with  his  plunder,  the  headsman  fixed  him 
with  a  spell  upon  that  wall  until  the  Sunday 
morning,  when  good  folk  were  on  their  way 
to  church.  There  hung  the  thief  with  his 
cabbages  in  sight  of  all.  The  headsman,  who 
had  put  so  many  others  out  of  misery,  laugh- 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

ingly  approached  him,  presented  him  with  a 
pig's  head  and  said,  'Take  this  as  well,  for  it 
is  a  poor  stew  without  meat,'  and  so  released 
him."  And  the  teller  of  tales  shook  his  broad 
sides  with  laughter  at  the  pranks  of  the  ex- 
ecutioner, who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  hero, 
despite  his  trade. 

The  old  man  recounted  other  similar  in- 
cidents of  marvelous  texture  in  the  life  of  the 
celebrated  executioner,  whose  name  he  could 
not  tell.  But  the  master-stroke  of  the  Scharf- 
ricbters  talents  seemed  to  be  his  capture 
of  Hans  von  Eisdorf.  Hans  was  the  Robin 
Hood  of  the  Hartz.  So  many  legends  cluster 
about  that  romantic  robber,  that  one  doubts 
his  reality ;  but  he  actually  flourished  in 
the  Seventeenth  Century  and  terrorized  the 
mountaineers.  He  and  his  merry  men  were 
the  scum  left  in  the  hills  by  Tilly's  and 
other  armies  that  swept  across  the  face  of  the 
Hartz  in  those  times.  You  hear  of  Hans  gal- 
loping into  a  town  with  twenty-four  riders, 

47 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

or  a  hundred  riders,  or  two  hundred  and 
fifty.  The  number  varies  with  the  story.  At 
all  events,  he  and  his  riders  waylaid  travel- 
ers and  robbed  and  plundered  to  their  hearts* 
content.  So  clever  was  he  at  evading  capture 
that  the  simple  hill  men  could  not  but  ad- 
mire him.  One  day  a  fair  was  held  at  Oster- 
ode,and  Hans  von  Eisdorf  had  the  effrontery 
to  come  into  the  city  disguised  and  to  mingle 
with  honest  men. 

"Hans,"  recounted  the  Osterodean,  "was 
tracked  by  spies  to  a  certain  tavern,  and  there 
he  sat  drinking  one,  bold  as  you  please. 
The  headsman  was  sent  for,  and  quick  as  a 
wink  he  had  fixed  the  bandit  to  his  chair  by 
means  of  a  spell.  Hans  could  not  move  hand 
or  foot,  and  then  every  one  knew  the  heads- 
man was  stronger  than  Hans  von  Eisdorf, 
who  was  drawn  and  quartered  in  the  market- 
place that  day  at  Osterode." 

The  old  gossip  had  almost  made  me  forget 
that  I  had  a  solemn  duty  to  perform .  I  was  now 

48 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

a  pilgrim  of  twenty-four  hours'  standing  and 
I  had  learned  much  wisdom  on  my  journey. 
I  called  the  head  waiter  to  my  room  and  gave 
him  a  variety  of  objects  to  pack  for  me  and 
to  send  back  to  Gottingen.  No  rare  curios 
these,  culled  by  the  wayside,  but  things  that 
yesterday  I  had  deemed  indispensable.  They 
all  came  out  of  my  knapsack,  and  included 
the  half  of  a  pair  of  hairbrushes,  a  tin  of  to- 
bacco and  a  pipe,  some  clothing,  another 
book  or  two,  and  some  rolls  of  films.  The 
morning  was  well  advanced,  and  I  decided  to 
march  on  despite  the  small  drizzle  into 
which  the  rain  had  settled.  As  I  strapped  on 
my  knapsack  I  laughed  aloud  for  joy,  so  light 
seemed  my  load  compared  with  yesterday. 
Swiftly  I  crossed  the  broad  old  marketplace, 
where  Hans  von  Eisdorf  had  been  so  severely 
dealt  with,  and  entered  the  bookshop  of  Frau 
Hedwig  von  Grassow,  to  buy  a  map. 

"The  Herr  is  marching  far?"  she  asked 
in  kindly  tones. 

49 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"To  Klausthal,"  I  answered;  then  with 
a  kind  of  premonition  I  added,  "  I  suppose 
I  shall  be  able  to  obtain  food  on  the  way." 

"The  Herr  has  had  no  luncheon?"  she 
exclaimed  with  some  concern ;  "  then  let 
him  go  back  at  once  and  procure  a  proper 
meal.  Pedestrians  cannot  live  on  air,  and 
the  Herr  will  find  it  always  takes  a  little 
longer  to  go  to  places  in  the  Hartz  than 
the  guide-books  pretend.  Does  the  Herr 
come  from  the  Kaiserhof  ?  Please  then  to  go 
back  to  the  Kaiserhof;  it  is  good  enough." 

This  advice  seemed  so  excellent  and  was 
so  kindly  given  that  I  mention  Frau  von 
Grassow's  name,  because  I  felt  such  a  wo- 
man ought  to  go  down  to  posterity.  I 
paused  for  a  moment  at  the  old  slate-cov- 
ered market  church,  built  in  a  peculiarly 
northern  variation  of  the  Gothic  style,  now 
extinct  even  in  Germany.  There  lie  buried 
under  Sixteenth  Century  grave-stones  some 
of  those  Grubenhagen  Dowagers  who  loved 

5° 


The  Black  Dog  at  Osterode 

to  dwell  here  in  retirement,  when  their 
daughters-in-law  came  in  turn  to  rule  the 
Dukes  of  Grubenhagen.  Before  the  beauti- 
ful old  Rathaus  which  is  not  far  off  hangs 
the  town-curiosity  —  an  immense  skeleton 
of  some  prehistoric  monster  resembling  the 
ichthyosaurus,  found  in  the  neighboring 
chalk  hills. 

I  made  an  excellent  meal  at  the  Kaiser- 
hof  on  a  fair  variety  of  the  schnitzel.  My 
coming  back  so  pleased  the  proprietor  that 
he  himself  gave  me  elaborate  directions  for 
my  route.  The  chambermaid,  overhearing 
the  name  Lerbach  mentioned,  ran  after  me 
to  ask  whether  I  was  going  to  Klausthal  by 
Lerbach,  and  to  ask  me,  if  so,  to  visit  her 
parents  there  and  to  be  pleased  to  tell  them 
she  was  happy.  Lerbach  is  about  four  miles 
from  Osterode,  but  as  Osterode  (population 
7100)  was  the  first  great  city  this  girl  had 
ever  lived  in,  she  felt  unspeakably  remote 
from  her  village  home  at  Lerbach. 

51 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

I  followed  the  road  that  runs  through  the 
town  along  the  Sose  River.  The  Sose,  at 
least  in  Osterode,  is  a  stream  of  pebbles, 
with  here  and  there  a  small  patch  of  mois- 
ture. I  passed  the  old  corn  magazine,  built 
in  1722,  bearing  the  arms  of  England  and 
Hanover  in  honor  of  the  Georges,  then  rul- 
ing Great  Britain.  In  this  neighborhood 
the  enchanted  captain  nightly  disappears, 
and  just  beyond  the  magazine  I  crossed  a 
bridge  into  the  village  of  Freiheit ;  avoid- 
ing the  Chaussee  I  struck  out  into  the  old 
Hartz  road  which  Heine  followed  when  he 
walked  this  way. 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 
CHAPTER  v 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  DILIGENCE 

Icb  will  im  grunen  Wald  ergehn 

Wo  Blumen  spriessen  und  Vogel  singen ; 

Denn  wenn  ich  im  Grabe  einst  liegen  werde 

1st  Aug  und  Ohr  bedeckt  mit  Erde, 

Die  Blumen  kann  ich  nicht  spriessen  sehn 

Und  Vogelgesang  hor'  ich  nicht  klingen. 

HEINE. 

THE  rain  had  ceased  suddenly  and  the 
sun  began  to  shed  a  tender  hazy  light 
upon  the  ancient  ruin  of  Osterode  castle. 
So  far  back  as  the  Sixteenth  Century  this 
abode  of  the  dowagers  was  already  aban- 
doned, and  Heine,  when  he  passed  by  it,  saw 
only  a  round  tower  standing.  Dilapidation 
must  have  gone  on  during  the  past  century, 
for  only  the  half  of  that  tower  remains  to- 
day, and  the  fragments  of  one  or  two  of  the 
walls.  Weeds  and  rank  grasses  grow  thick 

53 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

upon  the  site ;  creepers  pierce  the  clefts 
among  the  stones,  and  worm  their  way 
among  those  corpse-like  remains  of  by-gone 
grandeur,  completing  the  picture  of  desola- 
tion. The  owl's  hooting  is  heard  from  the 
dead  gray  tower  and  the  country  people  tell 
many  a  fearsome,  wonderful  legend  of  this 
ruin.  Heine  wrote  one  of  his  most  beauti- 
ful ballads  upon  it:  — 

"  Gras  bedeckt  jetzt  den  Turnierplatz 
Wo  gekampft  der  stolze  Mann 
Der  die  besten  iiberwunden 
Und  des  Kampfes  Preis  gewann. 

11  Epheu  rankt  auf  dem  Balkone 
Wo  die  schone  Dame  Stand 
Die  den  stolzen  Uberwinder 
Mit  den  Augen  uberwand." 

Grass  o'ergrows  the  ancient  tilt-yard  l 
Where  once  charged  the  haughty  knight, 

Who  subdued  the  bravest  hero, 
And  bore  off  the  prize  of  fight. 

1  Translated  by  Brooksbank. 

54 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

Ivy  creeps  along  the  dais 

Where  once  beauty  gave  the  prize, 

Vanquishing  the  haughty  victor 
With  the  lustre  of  her  eyes. 

From  the  present  fallen  state  of  the  castle, 
it  is  certainly  difficult  to  imagine  the  noble 
knight  tilting  before  it  or  the  noble  dame 
watching  the  tourney  from  her  gleaming 
bower.  But  this  is  the  poet's  vision.  The 
commoner  sort  of  imagination  of  the  pea- 
sants does  not  strive  to  visualize  a  glitter 
and  pomp  it  is  ignorant  of  but  connects  the 
legends  it  has  created  with  the  actual  visible 
ruin.  And  for  the  most  part  these  legends 
deal  with  a  pale  enchanted  damsel  decreed 
to  watch  a  rich  treasure  chest  in  the  under- 
ground recesses  of  the  castle. 

The  place  cries  aloud  for  a  story,  and, 
as  the  remnants  of  masonry  are  heavy  and 
massive,  the  legend-making  mind  concludes 
that  gold  is  buried  beneath  it.  In  the  same 
manner  the  Russian  peasant,  whose  mind 

55 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

works  in  even  more  mysterious  ways,  can- 
not conceive  of  the  great  Czar  as  eating 
such  common  fare  as  bread  and  meat.  There 
is  therefore  a  legend  among  the  peasants 
that  the  Czar  feeds  on  little  golden  watches 
of  fabulous  price. 

Soon  I  could  gaze  down  from  a  height 
upon  the  town  of  Osterode,  whose  bright 
red  roofs  gleaming  among  the  foliage  made 
it  appear  to  Heine  like  a  moss  rose.  With  a 
merry  heart  I  walked  briskly  along  a  green 
turf  footpath  beside  the  great  Hartz  road 
and  the  deep,  tenebrous  forest  of  pine  and 
cedar  seemed  to  take  me  to  its  bosom  and 
soothe  me  with  its  rich  and  brooding  si- 
lences. At  almost  regular  intervals  new  hills, 
dark  and  pine-crested,  swung  into  view  with 
a  kind  of  rhythmic  majesty,  and  I  seemed  to 
experience  the  effect  of  wonderful  strains  of 
music  crashing  heavenward.  Perfect  still- 
ness hung  over  road  and  forest.  I  slacked 
my  pace  to  drink  in  this  beauty  that  I  had 

56 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

so  long  waited  for,  but  in  a  few  minutes  I 
had  a  sense  that  something  was  wrong.  I 
could  not  understand  it,  but  unmistakably 
there  was  a  feeling  of  maladjustment. 

Presently,  however,  the  nameless  misgiv- 
ing solved  and  cleared  itself.  Hurry  was 
dead  and  I  was  assisting  at  the  obsequies. 
For  so  long  had  it  been  my  daily  portion, 
that  to  find  myself  strolling  in  leisure  with- 
out a  thought  of  the  busy,  pressing  world, 
reveling  in  wonderfully  beautiful  scenery, 
was  something  of  a  shock  to  the  nerves.  As 
soon  as  I  understood  my  trouble  it  vanished 
and  my  very  heart  began  to  sing  for  joy. 
Happy  thoughts  flitted  through  my  brain  as 
I  drank  in  the  balmy  pine-laden  air :  it  was 
a  kind  of  spiritual  second  wind. 

Golden  rays  of  sunlight  filtered  through 
the  verdure  and  fell  in  bright  patches  every- 
where. The  road  kept  winding  upward 
through  the  dusky  forest  with  here  and 
there  an  open  glade  sloping  away.  From 

57 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

the  hollow  of  one  of  these  open  spaces  along 
the  road  a  strange  murmurous  music,  the 
like  of  which  I  had  never  heard  before, 
came  creeping  up  to  the  road  above  and 
seemed  to  envelop  the  traveler  like  some 
sweet  seductive  perfume.  Far  below  me  a 
herd  of  milch-cows  was  grazing,  and  I  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  bells  of  the  herd 
were  making  the  rich,  satisfying  music  that 
seemed  nature's  own  peculiar  psalmody. 

I  ran  down  the  slope  to  the  bottom  of 
the  glade  and  a  wolf-hound  came  baying  to- 
ward me.  "  Spitz  !  Spitz  ! "  some  one  cried 
below,  and  the  dog  turned  tail  and  ran  to 
his  master,  an  elderly,  gray-haired  man  in  a 
fustian  tunic,  gaitered  to  the  knees,  who  lay 
stretched  in  the  luxuriant  grass,  surrounded 
by  his  tuneful  herd.  I  gave  him  good-day, 
unstrapped  my  knapsack,  and  sat  down  be- 
side him  wondering  whether  he  knew  what 
a  delectable  way  of  life  was  his.  We  chatted 
of  many  things,  and  after  his  first  shyness 

58 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

before  the  stranger  had  passed,  this  man  of 
seventy  told  me  to  the  tune  of  the  woodland 
bells  the  tale  of  the  Hiibich  Rock,  which 
was  near  to  the  town  of  Grund,  somewhere 
on  our  left. 

"That  rock,"  he  began  with  almost 
childish  simplicity,  as  though  he  were  tell- 
ing me  history,  "  that  rock  was  much  higher 
than  it  is  now.  In  the  Thirty  Years'  War  it 
was  truncated  by  cannon.  So  tall  was  it  in 
ancient  days  that  no  one  could  climb  to  the 
top.  A  forester's  son,  however,  succeeded 
one  day  in  climbing  to  the  very  peak,  and 
great  was  his  delight  at  this  achievement. 
But  Hubich,King  of  the  Pygmies  who  lived 
under  the  rock,  resented  such  effrontery. 

"  Spitz !  "  he  suddenly  cried  and  pointed 
to  a  red  heifer  that  had  strayed  from  the 
herd.  The  dog  made  a  dash  for  the  errant 
heifer,  leaped  madly  before  it,  and  with 
hoarse  barking  drove  it  back  to  the  herd. 

"  y^,"  he  continued,  turning  again  to  me, 
59 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  so  Hiibich  resolved  that  the  young  man 
should  die.  By  his  magic  power  he  made  it 
impossible  for  the  youth  to  descend,  and  it 
seemed  the  wild  boy  was  doomed  to  starve 
to  death  on  the  top  of  the  rock.  His  father, 
the  forester,  came,  and  the  young  man  begged 
him  to  shoot  him  and  so  release  him  from 
the  torture  of  death  by  starvation.  But  this 
the  Hubich  King,  touched  by  the  father's 
suffering,  would  not  permit.  Just  as  the  old 
forester  aimed  his  piece  at  the  son,  lightning 
flashed,  crash  after  crash  of  thunder  rent  the 
forest  stillness,  and  a  violent  rain-storm  made 
shooting  impossible.  The  heart-broken 
old  man  went  home  resolved  to  return  on 
the  morrow  and  put  his  boy  out  of  misery. 
But  Hubich,  moved  to  mercy,  took  the 
young  man  into  the  dim  recesses  of  his  un- 
derground realm,  gave  him  silver  in  abun- 
dance, and  much  gold,  made  him  promise 
never  again  to  climb  the  great  rock,  and 
sent  him  home  rejoicing." 

60 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

There  was  something  touching  about  this 
simple,  dignified  credulity  in  a  man  of  sev- 
enty, who  was  at  heart  a  child.  For  more 
than  fifty  years  he  had  been  herding  cattle 
here,  and  this  was  all  the  life  he  knew.  Aside 
from  the  cows  and  the  forest,  what  could  be 
more  real  to  his  mind  than  the  legends? 
With  mutual  good  wishes  we  parted,  and 
laboriously  I  climbed  back  to  the  road,  re- 
solved to  make  good  the  time  I  had  spent 
with  the  shepherd.  But  the  magic  of  the 
bells  kept  me  lingering  a  while  longer  at 
that  point,  and  I  believe  that  if  I  live  to  be 
a  hundred  years  I  shall  never  be  able  to  forget 
that  music.  Renan  somewhere  tells  of  a  Bre- 
ton legend  concerning  the  sunken  city  of  Is, 
which  the  sea  engulfed.  In  calm  weather 
fishermen  relate  that  they  hear  from  the 
depths  the  church-bells  of  Is  chiming  the 
hymns.  "Such  a  sunken  city  of  Is,"  said 
Renan,  "  I  have  in  my  heart,  and  its  per- 
sistent bells  still  toll  the  faithful  to  sacred 

61 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

offices/'  So,  I  fancy,  in  my  own  heart  will 
remain  forever  the  beautiful  glade  before 
Lerbach  in  the  Hartz  and  the  herd  bells 
will  evermore  make  music  there. 

The  way  to  Lerbach  continued  to  be  an 
avenue  of  wonderful  beauty  and  verdure.  It 
seemed  as  though  nature  had  assembled 
every  fair  spot  she  possessed  for  a  proud  ex- 
hibit in  this  place.  Afterward,  she  would, 
no  doubt,  disperse  those  treasures  to  the  hum- 
bler regions,  all  whose  pride  and  glory  they 
were.  I  recalled  a  notion  I  had  in  childhood 
regarding  the  origin  of  cities.  From  the 
country  home  where  I  was  born  my  parents 
sometimes  took  me  to  a  city  fifteen  miles 
distant,  and  my  first  idea  was  that  all  those 
people  had  assembled,  and  the  city  rose  up 
there  solely  for  the  purpose  of  selling  wares 
to  us  and  other  country-folk.  For  how  could 
one  conceive  of  living  in  a  place  so  noisy 
and  crowded  ?  After  we  had  all  bought  ac- 
cording to  our  needs,  these  feverish  people 

62 


THE   WAV  TO  LERBACH 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

would  doubtless  disperse  to  their  various 
homes  and  the  abandoned  shops  would  van- 
ish away. 

Before  Lerbach  I  met  an  old  Albino 
woman  bent  double  by  a  huge  basket  on  her 
back:  yet  she  walked  briskly,  knitting  a 
stocking  as  she  went.  I  gave  her  good-day 
and  asked  her  whether  she  would  like  to  be 
photographed. 

"No,"  she  mumbled,  "for  that  would 
bring  upon  me  the  evil  eye."  With  her  ashey 
white  face,  wrinkled  and  lined,  and  her  pink- 
ish eyes,  she  was  probably  the  ugliest  of  her 
sex  hereabout,  but  she  had  a  fear  lest  her 
charms,  fixed  forever  in  a  picture,  should 
lure  the  envious  eye  of  evil  wish  to  her  per- 
son. Lerbach's  population  is  largely  made 
up  of  Albinos,  whom  their  neighbors  call 
"  white  blackamoors."  At  the  very  door  of 
the  village  lies  a  clear  pond  that  must  have 
been  empty  at  one  time,  for  that  is  what  the 
name  of  the  village  signifies.  Here  the  en- 

63 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

chanted  damsel  who  guards  the  treasure  in 
the  vaults  of  Osterode  castle  is  said  to  bathe 
very  frequently.  She  alone,  probably,  in  all 
this  region,  puts  the  pond  to  any  such  use. 
Witches  and  pygmies  are  so  numerous  here- 
about that  you  cannot  be  sure  of  your  safety 
in  the  water.  As  it  is,  the  pygmies  have  a  way 
of  taking  newly  born  babes  from  their  mo- 
thers, leaving  their  own  horrid  changelings 
in  the  room.  The  village  lies  in  a  narrow 
gully  between  two  high  hills  and  seems 
peculiarly  secluded.  There  is  much  inter- 
marriage here,  everybody  is  related  to  every- 
body else,  and  many  children  are  born  crip- 
pled and  deformed.  The  defective  children 
are  thought  to  be  changelings  inflicted  on 
parents  by  malevolent  pygmies. 

Many  an  old  crone  is  suspected  of  witch- 
craft at  Lerbach.  An  aged  woodsman,  the 
father  of  the  hotel-maid  in  Osterode,  whom 
I  had  sought  out,  told  me  that  not  so  long 
ago  a  huntsman  saw  a  lily-white  doe  on  the 

64 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

crest  of  a  hill.  He  suspected  something,  and 
instead  of  using  shot,  he  loaded  his  piece 
with  a  "Matthew."  (A  Matthew  is  an  an- 
cient four-pfennig  coin  with  the  head  of 
Matthew,  Goslar's  patron  saint,  upon  it.  In 
cases  of  witchcraft  it  had  the  power  of  the 
cross.)  Promptly  the  white  doe  disappeared 
and  a  woman  the  huntsman  knew  well  stood 
in  its  place.  Angrily  he  warned  her  that  she 
had  best  not  be  at  such  tricks  again. 

Above  Lerbach  the  way  lies  through  no- 
ble forests  of  pine  and  cedar  and  beech,  and 
they  seem  to  be  constantly  murmuring  of  a 
blissful,  beautiful  peace  that  passeth  under- 
standing. As  the  venerable  heads  of  those 
magnificent  giant  trees  swayed  from  side  to 
side,  gently,  rhythmically,  they  all  seemed 
to  be  giving  a  stately  greeting  to  the  way- 
farer. Now  and  again  I  heard  the  sound  of 
an  axe  from  the  depth  of  the  wood,  but  in 
the  road  I  was  solitary,  for  this  is  not  the 
highway  of  touristry.  Here  and  there  a  Scho- 

65 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

nung,  that  is  a  new  patch  of  wood  planted 
where  an  old  had  been,  stood  surrounded  by 
the  great  forest  Titans,  with  almost  the  ten- 
der appeal  of  a  child  among  a  crowd  of  eld- 
ers. Steeper  and  steeper  the  road  grows  as  it 
winds  its  way  in  and  out  through  that  se- 
cret, enfolding  forest,  that  once  upon  a  time 
screened  Hans  von  Eisdorf  and  his  band  of 
Harzscbutzen.  At  many  a  darkling  turn  here 
Hans  waylaid  and  stripped  the  rich  mer- 
chants of  the  Hartz. 

Now  and  again  I  paused  and  looked  back 
with  a  growing  wonder  upon  the  opulent 
landscape  of  hill  and  dale,  forest  and  glade, 
that  lay  spread  out  below  me.  With  a  kind 
of  tenderness  I  gazed  upon  the  fair  and  placid 
scene  drenched  in  soft,  golden  sunlight,  quite 
forgetting  the  toil  that  many  a  steep  piece 
of  road  had  cost  me  ;  just  as  in  life,  once  the 
first  fever  of  youth  is  past,  you  look  back 
yearningly  upon  the  dear  days  that  are  no 
more  and  the  happy  memories  they  hold, 

66 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

forgetting  that  pain  was  there  as  well  as 
pleasure.  But  it  was  a  way  I  knew  and  had 
traveled.  What  lay  beyond  was  clothed  in 
the  dense  garment  of  mystery. 

At  the  forest  tavern  of  Heiligenstock, 
which  stands  upon  the  site  of  an  ancient 
chapel  for  travelers,  some  rough  woodsmen 
were  drinking  at  a  table  by  the  roadside  and 
making  the  forest  ring  with  their  loud,  troll- 
like  laughter.  The  reason  for  their  jests  and 
demeanor  I  soon  found  to  be  a  well-dressed 
solitary  lady,  young  and  pretty,  who  was  the 
sole  occupant  of  the  post  coach  that  had 
halted  before  the  tavern.  The  horses  were 
being  baited  and  the  postilions  themselves 
were  taking  a  snack  of  something,  but  the 
lady  remained  in  the  depth  of  the  great  yel- 
low coach  which  had  drawn  up  near  to  the 
woodsmen.  The  men  of  a  certain  class,  irre- 
spective of  clime  or  country,  cannot  help 
"showing  off"  before  women  of  a  better. 

A  sweet-faced  waitress,  who  seemed  too 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

good  for  her  place,  was  serving  beer  to  the 
roisterers  and  smiling  good-naturedly  at  their 
jests,  which  were,  so  far  as  I  could  hear,  in 
no  case  offensive.  Either  the  woodsmen  were 
better  than  they  looked,  or  a  face  such  as 
that  waitress  possessed  is  its  own  protection. 
I  gave  the  men  good-day  after  the  fashion 
of  the  country,  and  sat  down  at  a  neighbor- 
ing table  for  a  few  moments  of  rest.  As  I 
was  unstrapping  my  knapsack  the  lady  in 
the  mail  coach  suddenly  leaned  forward  to 
the  window,  and  with  that  fleeting  glance  I 
had  of  her  high-bred,  delicate  face  I  expe- 
rienced the  curious  sense  of  vague  familiar- 
ity we  sometimes  have  on  meeting  strangers. 
Either  I  had  seen  her  or  met  her  before,  or 
something  within  me  leaped  to  meet  her 
now.  But  in  a  moment  she  was  again  hid- 
den in  the  obscurity  of  the  coach.  The  pos- 
tilions had  finished  their  repast  and  with 
their  horsehair  plumes  waving  in  the  breeze 
they  clambered  up  to  the  box.  The  coach 

68 


The  Lady  of  the  Diligence 

was  a  public  conveyance  and  going  to  Klaus- 
thai,  my  destination.  I  had  a  quick  impulse 
to  take  passage  in  it  and  thus  become  the 
traveling  companion  of  the  beautiful  lady. 
But  conscience  bred  of  New  England  edu- 
cation reminded  me  that  my  plan  was  to 
walk.  Consideration  for  the  lady  did  the 
rest.  The  coach  rolled  away  and  I  remained 
at  the  table,  like  the  bridegroom  in  Lochin- 
var,  dangling  "  bonnet  and  plume,"  and  hop- 
ing that  we  might  meet  again.  The  woods- 
men clinked  their  glasses  and  continued  their 
troll-like  laughter  in  careless  ignorance  of 
the  soul  struggle  near  them. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 


CHAPTER    VI 
PISGAH   SIGHT 

Verlangst  du  nicbt  nach  einem  Besenstiele  ? 
Ich  wiinsckte  mir  den  allerderbsten  Bock. 
Auf  diesem  Weg  sind  wir  noch  weit  vom  Ziele. 

GOETHE. 

SOON  after  leaving  Heiligenstock  I  be- 
held a  youth  with  a  knapsack  and  stock, 
solitary  like  myself,  approaching  me.  He 
was  probably  not  over  eighteen,  but  so  deep 
and  settled  was  the  gloom  on  his  thin,  pale 
face  that  he  seemed  pathetically  out  of  place 
in  that  vital,  sanative  forest.  With  a  pretense 
of  asking  the  road  I  addressed  him  and  we 
chatted  for  the  space  of  a  few  moments.  He 
was  a  victim  of  the  rigid  gymnasium  system 
of  Germany.  So  much  learning  is  crowded 
upon  boys  not  yet  in  the  university  that,  in- 
stead of  the  plump  red-cheeked  lads  of  the 
1  70 


Pisgah  Sight 


picture  books,  you  often  see  these  over- 
worked melancholy  youths  creeping  about 
like  shadows  in  the  land.  Much  Latin  and  a 
goodly  store  of  Greek  that  boy  doubtless 
possessed,  but  in  viewing  him  I  thought  with 
pleasure  on  the  foot-ball  and  horseplay  of 
our  own  schoolboys. 

At  a  crossing  to  which  I  came  after  leav- 
ing the  schoolboy,  where  the  old  Hartz  road 
meets  the  new  chaussee,  sat  a  gray-haired 
man  breaking  stones.  Dignity  seemed  to  be 
crowning  labor  like  a  verified  copy-book 
maxim  in  the  figure  of  that  old  man  bent 
over  his  menial  task.  When  I  spoke  to  him 
he  saluted,  for  on  his  cap  was  the  button  that 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Ger- 
many denotes  the  official.  Though  lowly  in 
station  he  could  not  forget  that  he  held  office 
under  the  Empire.  "  By  thy  sword  shalt  thou 
live  "  was  the  blessing  conferred  upon  Esau, 
and  if  the  sword  be  the  symbol  of  office, 
Esau  is  a  German  to-day. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Buntenbock,  a  maroon-roofed  village  that 
lies  away  from  the  road,  I  passed  without 
entering,  for  the  afternoon  was  waning.  Old 
worked-out  mines,  long  since  abandoned, 
furnish  Buntenbock  with  one  or  two  legends 
concerning  salamanders.  More  than  one 
miner  while  digging  for  iron  discovered 
quantities  of  salamanders  in  the  soil.  One 
was  so  annoyed  by  them  that  he  burned  many 
barrows  full  of  the  vaguely  described,  crawl- 
ing creatures.  He  did  not  even  heed  the 
signals  of  that  friendly  gnome  of  the  mines, 
"the  Hill-Monk,'*  who,  according  to  the 
legend,  sought  to  restrain  him.  Foolish, 
foolish  miner  !  The  Hill-Monk  would  have 
made  his  everlasting  fortune,  for  the  crawl- 
ing salamanders  were  pure  and  precious 
gold. 

Ziegelhiitte,  a  small  summer  hotel  stand- 
ing isolated  by  the  roadside  just  opposite 
Buntenbock,  came  forth  to  meet  me  with 


72 


Pisgah  Sight 


open  arms.  Two  small  children  ran  forward; 
one  grasping  my  stick  and  another  my  hand, 
led  me  willy-nilly  to  the  living  room  of 
their  father's  house.  I  could  not  resist  such 
an  invitation,  so  I  paused  for  a  few  minutes. 
The  thin,  mild  host,  father  of  the  children, 
put  some  refreshment  before  me  and  gently 
bade  them  leave  the  stranger  in  peace.  But 
peace  is  abundant  at  Ziegelhiitte,  and  the 
tow-headed  children  insisted  on  hearing  the 
adventures  of  the  solitary  wanderer. 

I  pushed  on  through  the  gathering  dusk, 
intent  upon  reaching  Klausthal  before  the 
threatened  rainfall.  A  spattering  of  drops, 
however,  overtook  me,  and  I  sought  protec- 
tion by  entering  the  great  forest  and  walking 
under  the  shade  of  the  towering  pine  tops. 
The  bit  of  rain  soon  took  off,  but  I  con- 
tinued to  walk  on  the  dry  needles  among  the 
pines,  which  gave  me  an  indescribable  thrill 
of  adventure.  That "  probably  arboreal "  an- 


73 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

cestor  of  ours  was  doubtless  delighted  to 
come  into  his  own  again,  to  flit  in  and  out 
among  the  great  giants  of  the  forest,  ancient 
scene  of  his  life's  conflict. 

The  clouds  lifted  for  a  brief  space,  and  as 
I  emerged  from  the  forest  to  the  open  road 
again  I  beheld,  far  and  dim  on  my  right,  a 
peak  that  rose  above  the  circling  hills.  A 
young  man  and  a  girl  with  cloaks  over  their 
heads  were  standing  by  the  roadside  and  gaz- 
ing from  out  of  their  tent-like  garments  to 
the  distant  hill-tops. 

"  That,"  they  said  both  together,  in  some- 
what awestruck  tones, "  that  is  the  Brocken." 
This  was  a  Pisgah  sight  that  had  not  been 
vouchsafed  to  Heine;  at  all  events,  he  makes 
no  mention  of  it.  The  way  I  was  going,  the 
Brocken  was  still  several  days*  journey.  By 
railway  the  distance  could,  of  course,  be  made 
in  a  few  hours.  But  the  railway  was  wholly 
absent  from  my  calculations.  I  had  become 
a  pedestrian,  and  measured  all  distances  ac- 

74 


Pisgah  Sight 


cordingly.  The  Brocken  at  that  moment 
seemed  to  me  remote  as  Mecca. 

Klausthal  suddenly  rose  before  me  at  one 
leap.  Such  is  the  shape  of  the  country  that  you 
see  nothing  of  Klausthal  until  you  actually 
stand  before  it.  Heine  had  the  same  experi- 
ence, although  he  entered  the  town  at  high 
noon. 

A  certain  chilly  pallor  seemed  to  fall  upon 
the  houses  from  the  sunless  sky,  and  instinc- 
tively you  felt  that  mountaineers  must  live 
much  of  their  time  under  such  a  light,  and 
therefore  have  great  need  of  very  warm 
hearts.  I  followed  the  long  street  up  hill  and 
down  dale  toward  the  "  Krone."  Folk  went 
hurriedly  shuddering  into  doorways,  lights 
began  to  blink,  and  together  with  the  night 
I  entered  the  inn  of  the  Golden  Crown. 
Golden,  at  any  rate,  it  must  have  been  once, 
for  so  reads  the  sign  over  the  door,  but  even 
the  landlord  calls  it  simply  "  Die  Krone"  to- 
day, and  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago  Heine 

75 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

had  dropped  the  "golden."  A  mild  blond 
young  man  received  me  and  gave  me  a  room 
bedecked  with  profusion  of  royal  purple.  It 
was  the  most  expensive  room  in  the  house, 
but  apologetically  he  informed  me  that  he 
had  no  other.  The  price  was  four  marks  the 
night  (one  dollar)  inclusive  of  breakfast.  By 
way  of  mitigation  he  informed  me  that  His 
Imperial  Majesty  William  II,  when  he,  in 
his  younger  days,  had  made  his  Hartz  tour, 
occupied  the  self-same  room,  and  for  that 
occasion  it  was  decorated.  "  Heine,  too,"  he 
added,  "slept in  this  apartment."  I  took  the 
room  without  a  murmur. 

The  bland  young  waiter  of  the  silken 
mustache  hovered  about  me  for  a  space  with 
an  indescribable  air  of  friendly  detachment. 
He  was  the  image  of  a  young  German  Duke 
I  had  once  seen  in  a  Paris  cafe.  With  his  re- 
mote air  he  theorized  in  murmurous,  apolo- 
getic tones  concerning  the  color  scheme. 

"  Red,"  said  he,  "is  not  so  restful  to  the 
76 


Pisgah  Sight 


nerves  as  might  be  some  quieter  color.  But 
all  the  other  cheaper  rooms  are  full  —  two 
Herren  and  a  gentleman  with  his  wife  and 
daughter.  Yet  the  Herr  will  probably  sleep 
soundly  enough.  Majesty  found  no  difficulty 
in  sleeping  here;  but  then,"  he  added  with 
his  silken  smile,  "  Majesty  is  probably  used  to 
it." 

Now,  though  I  had  never  entertained  am- 
bitions for  a  throne,  I  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy 
when  the  Duke  thus  flaunted  royalty  in  my 
face,  particularly  since  I  had  not  entered  a 
word  of  complaint.  I  was  getting  into  high 
latitudes  indeed. 

"Majesty,"  I  retorted,  "is  a  traveler  of 
much  experience  and  can  put  up  with  all  sorts 
of  conditions,  and  so,  my  lad,  can  I.  Kindly 
send  me  in  a  bottle  of  spring  water." 

That  put  the  Duke  in  his  place,  I  thought. 
He  vanished  and  soon  returned  with  the 
water,  a  chastened  soul.  He  took  my  order 
for  supper  in  a  brisk  business-like  fashion  with 

77 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

never  a  shadow  of  his  former  grand  manner, 
and  almost  warmly  recommended  Klaus- 
thal's  favorite  cate,  fried  partridge. 

"The  birds  have  just  been  killed,"  said  the 
waiter, "  and  the  Herr  doubtless  knows  how 
good  they  are  in  this  vicinity."  The  Herr 
knew  nothing. 

"Partridges,"  he  replied,  "once  brought  a 
likely  pair  of  rogues  to  justice  hereabout." 
And  what  with  his  soft  voice,  his  suave  smile, 
and  unusual  urbanity  of  manner,  he  seemed 
a  very  pleasant  young  man  narrating  an  anec- 
dote to  a  friend.  "Those  rogues,"  he  went 
on, "  waylaid  a  merchant  of  Osterode  and  fell 
upon  him  close  to  Heiligenstock.  The  man 
was  unarmed  and  could  do  nothing  against 
the  two  jailbirds,  so  he  freely  offered  them 
all  his  gold  and  begged  them  to  spare  him. 
'No/  said  the  rogues,  'if  we  spare  you,  then 
you  will  denounce  us.*  He  swore  by  all  that 
was  highest  and  dearest  he  would  not  de- 
nounce them,  but  in  vain.  Just  as  they  were 

78 


Pisgah  Sight 


making  ready  to  slay  him  a  flock  of  partridges 
sailed  by  overhead. '  Then,'  said  the  merchant, 
'if  you  have  no  pity  in  your  hearts,  yonder 
birds  shall  betray  you.*  The  rogues  laughed 
and  slew  him.  '  Now,  look  you/  said  one  to 
the  other, 'let  us  stop  in  at  Ziegelhiitte  and 
have  a  bite  and  a  bottle  before  we  wander 
farther.'  So  saying,  they  entered  the  inn  and 
asked  the  landlord  for  his  best.  '  I  have  some 
fine  birds,' said  he, '  only  just  brought  down.' 
'The  birds,  the  very  thing!'  they  cried  in 
one  voice.  He  brought  in  the  birds  and  the 
bottles,  and  the  feasting  rascals  grew  merry. 
'  Now  let  the  birds  betray  us,'  said  they,  and 
rattled  on  in  maudlin  fashion.  It  so  happened, 
however,  that  a  dozing  servant  behind  the 
stove,  awakened  by  their  hellish  laughter, 
heard  their  babble  and  slipped  his  news  to 
mine  host.  Instantly  the  servant  was  dis- 
patched to  Klausthal,  while  the  landlord 
adroitly  held  the  thieves  engaged  in  conver- 
sation until  the  holy  angels  came  and  packed 

79 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

them  off  to  gratuitous  lodgings  in  Klausthal 
prison/' 

"And  what,"  I  interrupted,  "had  the 
holy  angels  to  do  with  it?" 

"That,"  he  answered,  with  the  patient 
superiority  of  an  elder  explaining  to  a  child, 
"that  is  a  name  we  have  for  constables  here." 
He  was  the  Duke  again.  "  In  less  than  four 
weeks,"  he  concluded,  "  the  rogues  were 
swinging  from  a  gibbet.  The  birds  had  be- 
trayed them  after  all." 

"Then  partridge  is  my  meat,"  I  an- 
nounced, dismissing  His  Grace  from  the 
purple  Chamber. 

I  was  in  a  civilized  country.  Men  all  about 
me  wore  the  garb  of  civilization,  but  some- 
how they  still  had  in  their  hearts  the  credu- 
lity of  childhood  or  of  men  of  an  earlier  age. 
So  it  is  in  the  secluded  places  of  the  world, 
on  the  heights  and  in  the  forests.  In  the 
bare  and  populous  valleys  where  civilization 
sweeps  headlong  and  unstemmed,  all  of  these 

80 


Pisgah  Sight 


simple,  charming  traits  of  mankind  of  an 
earlier  date  deliquesce  and  disappear  forever- 
more.  It  is  the  difference  that  made  the  Hartz 
so  strangely  fascinating  to  me.  It  is  the  fresh- 
ness and  simplicity  that  lured  so  many  of  the 
world's  greatest  souls  to  these  regions.  Goethe 
and  Heine,  and  Chamisso,  creator  of  the  won- 
derful Peter  Schlemihl,  all  sought  the  bra- 
cing, inspiriting  solitude  of  these  mountains 
for  their  souls'  good,  and  all  avowedly  with 
profit. 

When  I  came  down  to  the  dining-room 
I  saw  at  a  glance  the  reason  for  all  the 
grandeur  and  pride  of  the  Duke.  Facing  him 
at  a  table  in  an  angle  of  the  room  sat  a  fair- 
haired  stately  damsel  gazing  lovingly  into 
his  eyes.  She  was  the  Lady  Kunigunde  of 
all  the  German  romances  I  had  ever  read. 
She  was,  as  I  afterward  learned,  the  land- 
lord's daughter  and  my  friend  the  Duke  had 
but  recently  married  her.  That  was  the  se- 
cret of  his  constant  air  of  detachment,  his 

81 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

apparent  desire  to  have  done  with  mundane 
folk  who  thought  upon  nothing  but  beer 
and  schnitzel  and  kept  him  from  his  bride. 
Then  my  heart  went  out  to  the  Duke  and 
rejoiced  in  his  happiness  even  in  this  remote 
town,  such  is  the  universal  effect  of  love.  I 
must  own,  however,  that  once  in  his  lady's 
neighborhood,  he  seemed  capable  of  discuss- 
ing schnitzel  to  considerable  purpose.  The 
Lady  Kunigunde  seemed  wholly  out  of  place 
in  the  inn  parlor.  She  obviously  belonged  in 
a  high-studded  wainscoted  hall  built  in  the 
Gothic  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  in  the  times  of 
Gotz  of  the  Iron  Hand.  In  modern  days  she 
seemed  anachronistic  even  in  a  castle,  for 
there  she  would  perhaps  be  merely  writing 
about  Elizabeth  and  vegetable  life  in  German 
gardens. 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

CHAPTER   VII 

THE   ENCHANTED   HILL    MAN 

Auf '  dem  Berge  steht  die  Hiitte 
Wo  der  alte  Bergmann  wohnt; 
Dorten  rauscht  die  grune  Tanne 
Und  erglanzt  der  goldne  Mond. 

HEINE. 

THE  dining-room  held  more  than  one 
surprise  that  evening.  All  the  smaller 
tables  being  occupied,  I  sat  down  at  the  large 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  scarcely 
had  I  done  so  when  a  party  of  three  entered 
and  took  places  near  me,  doubtless  the  gentle- 
man with  the  wife  and  the  daughter  the 
waiter  had  mentioned.  My  eyes  did  not  lin- 
ger long  on  the  rubicund,  bearded  features 
of  the  gentleman,  nor  yet  on  the  well-fed, 
placid  countenance  of  the  wife.  For  in  the 
face  of  the  daughter  I  instantly  beheld  some- 

83 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

thing  pleasantly  familiar — in  a  flash  I  knew: 
she  was  my  lady  of  the  diligence.  She  smiled 
faintly,  I  thought,  as  she  pronounced  in  one 
voice  with  her  parents  the  courteous  dis- 
syllable "Mahlzeit"  and  sat  down  opposite 
me. 

Short  though  my  wanderings  had  been 
thus  far,  I  nevertheless  experienced  in  some 
degree  the  exile's  pleasure  on  seeing  a  face 
not  wholly  strange.  My  solitary  pilgrimage 
was  purely  voluntary,  long-awaited  and 
painted  by  fancy  in  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow. But  such  is  human  nature  that  I  had 
a  thrill  of  pleasure  upon  beholding  some  one 
I  had  seen  before.  In  actual  exile  I  suppose 
not  only  every  familiar  face,  but  every  stock 
and  stone  fills  the  heart  with  endless  tender 
yearning.  As  Cacciaguida  foretold  to  Dante 
in  Paradise,  — 

"  Tu  lascerai  ogni  cosa  diletta," 
for  all  things  are  beloved  when  you  are  forced 
to  leave  them. 

84 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

We  sat  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  but 
soon  the  natural  amiability  of  this  family, 
that  I  afterward  came  to  know  so  well,  as- 
serted itself,  and  the  gentleman  remarked 
that  unless  he  erred  I  seemed  to  be  a  foot- 
tourist.  I  owned  as  much. 

"  You  are,  I  see,  a  stranger  in  these  parts/* 
said  he.  "  I  do  not  suppose  they  have  such 
mountains  in  England."  He  took  me  for 
an  Englishman.  My  pride  was  humbled. 
Hitherto  the  simpler  people  I  had  met  be- 
lieved that  I  was  a  native  of  some  part  of 
Germany  not  their  own,  at  least  until  I  told 
them  otherwise.  But  the  educated  man  de- 
tected me  at  once  by  my  speech.  When  I 
told  him,  however,  that  I  was  come  all  the 
way  from  America  to  look  upon  the  Hartz, 
and  to  wander  up  and  down  in  it,  he  and 
his  ladies  became  alive  with  interest  and 
friendliness. 

"  Ach,  America  !  "  exclaimed  the  wife  in 
astonished  tones,  "  but  that  is  wonderful." 

85 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

And  the  daughter  cried,  "What  a  Klotz 
(log)  I  am  !  I  should  never  have  known  the 
Herr  was  not  a  German." 

"  Such  as  you,  Fraulein,"  I  replied,  "grace 
embassies  and  courts ;  you  are  flattering  both 
your  father  and  myself  without  any  visible 
effort.'*  She  laughed  delightedly. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  us  about  Amer- 
ica ? "  she  begged,  with  a  very  pretty  man- 
ner. 

"As you  probably  know/'  I  told  her,  "we 
are  all  savages  and  cowboys  and  Indians  there, 
little  better  than  wild  Apaches  or  Mohawks. 
But  with  all  that  we  make  prodigious  sums 
of  money  every  day." 

"  The  Herr  thinks  we  are  peasants,  papa," 
she  pouted,  "and  that  we  believe  all  that 
nonsense."  The  parents  smiled  upon  their 
handsome  daughter. 

"  At  all  events,  I  believe  that  nonsense," 
I  pursued,  "and  that  is  why  I  did  not  allow 
a  certain  American  to-day  to  take  passage 

86 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

in  a  mail  coach  that  held  a  beautiful  lady  as 
sole  passenger — despite  his  inclinations." 

At  this  they  all  laughed  heartily. 

"  Now  you  see,  daughter,"  said  the  mother 
earnestly,  "nothing  passes  unnoticed  in  this 
world.  I  told  her,"  turning  to  me,  "that  it 
would  not  be  seemly  for  her  to  travel  alone 
from  Osterode  to  Klausthal.  But  she  insisted 
on  being  left  behind  to  stay  with  a  sick  school 
friend." 

"I  knew  you  were  the  Herr  of  Heiligen- 
stock,"  said  Fraulein  reflectively;  then  after 
a  pause,  "but,  anyhow^  I  have  no  fear  of 
savages." 

The  talk  became  general,  and  soon  the 
landlord,  a  man  of  seventy,  with  a  strong 
face,  erect  and  soldierly  of  bearing,  sat  down 
with  us  and  pleasantly  remarked  that  if  walk- 
ing be  our  plan  he  feared  we  should  have  a 
wet  road  to-morrow. 

"  Come  wet,  come  dry,  we  shall  walk 
nevertheless,"  answered  the  father  of  the 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Fraulein ;  then,  with  a  glance  at  his  daugh- 
ter, he  added,  "  we  do  not  like  to  travel  in 
mail  coaches."  She  blushed  and  we  all 
smiled.  It  seemed  very  grateful  to  a  lonely 
stranger  like  myself  to  have  that  bit  of  Ould 
Grouse -in -the -gun -room  humor  between 
him  and  this  pleasant  family,  Hartz  pedes- 
trians like  himself.  The  landlord,  father  of 
Kunigunde  and  father-in-law  of  the  Duke, 
volubly  went  on  to  tell  us  about  the  city  of 
Klausthal,  of  which  he  seemed  very  proud. 
The  father  of  the  young  lady  he  deferen- 
tially addressed  by  the  title  of  "  Herr  Ge- 
heimrath,"  which  showed  me  that  I  was  in 
distinguished  company ;  and,  indeed,  as  I 
afterwards  found,  Herr  Geheimrath  Hoppe 
was  a  Privy  Councillor  to  the  King  of  Sax- 
ony. 

"  Legends  in  this  countryside  seem  to 
flourish  like  forests,"  said  the  landlord,  "and 
to  grow  like  ore.  Most  of  the  tales  are  of 
miners  and  hunters." 

88 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

Ore,  according  to  the  simple  notions  of 
the  miners  of  the  Hartz,  grows  like  any 
other  product  of  the  soil.  A  famous  Hartz 
toast  is,  — 

"  Es  grune  die  Tannc,  es  wachse  das  Erz  ! 
Gott  schenke  uns  alien  ein  frohliches  Herz ! " 

May  the  ore  keep  growing,  the  pine  keep  green, 
And  God  give  us  hearts  light  and  serene. 

We  urged  the  landlord  to  tell  us  some  of 
these  legends. 

"First,  then,"  said  he,  "I  shall  tell  you 
the  tale  of  the  Venetian."  One  or  two  of 
the  guests  from  the  smaller  tables  sat  down 
near  us,  Fraulein  Hoppe  drew  her  chair  in 
more  closely  and  smiled  encouragingly  upon 
the  old  man.  In  his  gratification  he  there- 
after addressed  all  his  narrative  to  the  girl. 

"Once,"  he  began,  "there  was  a  Vene- 
tian at  Klausthal  who  had  been  made  over- 
seer of  a  mine.  Such  was  his  good-nature 
that  if  any  of  the  miners  wished  to  go  home 

89 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

he  readily  gave  them  leave  and  did  their 
work  himself.  But  this  was  bad  discipline, 
so  that  the  overseer  brought  upon  himself 
frequent  punishments  from  his  superiors. 
For  that  reason  he  felt  a  longing  to  return 
to  Venice. 

"One  day,  when  all  the  men  had  gone 
home,  he  kept  his  foreman  behind  and  asked 
him  whether  he  wished  to  go  with  him. 
The  foreman  agreed  and  they  descended 
the  shaft,  went  along  the  galleries,  blasted 
their  way  farther  and,  after  a  brief  repast, 
began  to  penetrate  ever  deeper  into  the  rock, 
along  a  wondrously  beautiful  way.  At  last 
they  arrived  at  Venice  and  emerged  in  a 
luxuriant  garden  at  the  overseer's  very  door. 
The  foreman  was  pleased  with  the  place; 
but  one  day  when  the  overseer  inquired  of 
him  whether  he  would  not  like  to  see  the 
Hartz  again,  the  foreman  replied,  *  With  all 
my  heart.*  He  took  his  mining  lamp  and 
they  walked  within  the  rock  as  before,  but 

90 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

as  the  Klausthaler  could  not  find  his  way  for 
the  heaps  of  stone  left  by  the  gunpowder 
explosions,  the  Venetian  escorted  him  to  the 
very  mouth  of  the  mine  and  then  went  his 
way  back  to  Venice. 

"But  when  the  foreman  arrived  at  Klaus- 
thai  not  a  soul  there  knew  him  or  had  the 
slightest  recollection  of  him.  Neither  his 
wife  nor  his  children  were  there,  nor  was 
there  even  a  memory  of  them.  The  ancient 
chronicles  were  then  consulted,  and  these 
in  very  truth  recorded  that  a  miner  of  the 
foreman's  name  and  description  had  vanished 
from  Klausthal  some  centuries  before.  But 
the  foreman  vowed  that  he  had  sojourned  in 
Venice  but  a  little  while." 

Mine  host  concluded  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand  which  plainly  said,  "  I  could  tell  you 
many  other  things  no  less  veracious  and  re- 
markable, should  you  press  me,"  gave  us  all 
an  inclusive  glance  and  smiled  benignly  upon 
Fraulein  Hoppe.  We  were  not  a  difficult 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

audience.  A  festive  air  hung  about  the  lit- 
tle company,  as  though  we  were  so  many 
friends  on  a  junket.  All  of  us  had  probably 
read  of  scenes  of  this  kind,  and  we  were  in 
high  good  humor  to  be  actually  living  in  a 
sort  of  romance.  I,  for  my  part,  was  in- 
wardly congratulating  myself  because  I  was 
none  of  your  record-making  pedestrians  who 
cover  many  leagues  per  diem  but  arrive  at 
nightfall  with  what  Stevenson  calls  "  a  frost 
on  their  five  wits,"  too  heavy  and  tired  to 
hold  up  their  heads.  With  great  glee  I  joined 
Fraulein  Hoppe  in  en  treaties  for  another  tale. 
The  landlord  was  nothing  loath.  After  a  de- 
cent pause  he  began  afresh  and  told  us  two 
or  three  stories  concerning  the  Devil.  Ac- 
cording to  those  yarns,  the  Devil  is  almost  a 
domesticated  animal  at  Klausthal.  He  can 
be  summoned  by  very  simple  means.  For  in- 
stance, two  miners  of  an  investigating  turn 
wanted  to  see  the  Devil.  One  brought  a 
book  with  him  and  read  it  in  the  depths  of 

92 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

the  mine  until  the  Devil  came.  He  looked 
at  them  and  vanished.  But  when  the  second 
miner  tried  the  same  trick  the  Devil  reap- 
peared, and  threatened  to  take  his  life  unless 
he  could  read  the  page  backward.  Luckily 
the  miner  could,  and  so  escaped.  Just  as 
Charles  Lamb  could  have  written  Shake- 
speare's plays  "if  only  he  had  the  mind,"  so, 
in  Klausthal,  apparently  anybody  can  conjure 
up  the  Devil  if  he  but  has  the  inclination. 
Indeed,  we  seemed  almost  to  feel  his  im- 
pending presence  the  while  our  host  spun 
his  genial  yarns. 

"I  never  thought,"  Fraulein Hoppe  broke 
in  joyously,  "that  the  Devil  was  so  much 
of  a  household  pet  in  Klausthal."  We  all 
laughed.  The  landlord  smiled  indulgently 
and  replied,  not  without  gravity,  — 

"  He  is  well  known  to  most  of  us."  Which 
showed  that  he  was  a  philosopher  as  well  as 
a  story-teller. 

In  Heine's  Harzreise  is  to  be  found  a  beau- 
93 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

tiful  Mountain  Idyl  recording  in  ballad  form 
the  bewitching  fairy-lore  as  though  it  had 
been  narrated  by  a  pretty  child  sitting  on  his 
knee  in  the  snug  security  of  a  miner's  cabin 
perched  on  the  hillside.  In  the  sweet,  simple 
measure  of  the  folk-song,  the  child  pours 
forth  many  a  tale  of  knight  and  lady,  witch 
and  gnome. 

"  Also  bluhen  Marchenbilder 
Aus  des  Mundes  Roselein, 
Und  die  Augen  giessen  druber 
Ihren  blauen  Sternenschein." 

Thus  do  lovely  fairy  pictures 

From  the  rosemouth  spring  and  bloom ; 

While  her  clear  eyes  shed  resplendent, 
Sweet  blue  starlight  through  the  gloom. 

Heine's  mountain  cabin  was  somewhere 
in  this  vicinity,  and  I  should  have  given 
much  to  have  come  upon  it  in  my  wander- 
ings. 

The  stars  glimmering  and  the  pine  trees 
murmuring  overhead,  the  sweet  peace  and 

94 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

contentment  of  the  cabin  interior  with  the 
bearded  miner  playing  airs  upon  the  zither 
while  the  little  girl  was  recounting  all  her 
fairy  lore  —  dearly  should  I  have  loved  to 
be  a  part  of  such  a  scene.  But  that  is  the 
privilege  of  the  poets  of  the  world,  those 
mortals  half  divine,  the  play  of  whose  minds 
leaves  a  shimmering  trail  of  beauty.  So  far 
from  giving  airy  nothing  a  local  habitation 
I  must  needs  describe  in  workaday  prose, 
without  any  attempts  at  airy  flights,  the  local 
habitation,  the  inn-parlor  company,  and  the 
grizzled  landlord  spinning  his  yarns ;  though 
we  could  not  but  feel  as  we  listened  to  those 
tales  that  we  were  really  living  a  kind  of 
poetry.  People  here  seemed  simpler,  a  less 
sophisticated,  more  innocent  generation  of 
mankind,  and  therefore  more  poetical.  The 
note  is  struck  in  the  words  of  Heine's  child 
of  fancy :  — 

"  Und  die  Katz'  ist  eine  Hexe, 
Denn  sie  schleicht  bei  Nacht  und  Sturm. 

95 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Druben  nach  dem  Geisterberge 
Nach  dem  altverfallnen  Turm." 

And  an  evil  witch  is  pussy, 
For  she  steals  thro'  storm  and  night 
To  the  ghostly  castle-ruin 
There  upon  the  dreadful  height. 

The  landlord,  too,  told  tales  of  witches, 
but  they  were  not  metrical  nor  quite  so  fan- 
ciful. The  chilly  little  hill  town  seemed 
suddenly  alive  with  witches  as  the  old  man 
kept  recalling  instances  of  many  a  beldame 
who  proved  upon  investigation  to  be  no  better 
than  a  servant  of  him  who  ruined  the  soul 
of  Doctor  Faustus.  It  is  on  the  eve  of  Wal- 
purgisnight  that  the  witches  are  most  preva- 
lent, for  then  every  mother's  daughter  of 
them  must  hasten  to  the  Brocken  revels 
and  make  obeisance  to  her  lord  and  master. 
Generally  it  is  the  shape  of  black  cats  that 
the  witches  are  wont  to  assume. 

"  Folk  tell  each  other  hereabout,"  said  the 
landlord,  "  concerning  an  old  woman  and 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

her  daughter  who  were  returning  to  Klaus- 
thai  on  the  eve  of  one  Walpurgisnight,  and 
being  heavy  laden  they  sat  down  to  rest  on 
the  edge  of  the  town.  Numberless  black 
cats  were  moving  Brockenward,  and  some 
of  them  as  they  passed  called  the  old  woman 
by  name.  'Tell  Mistress  Overseer  L.  that 
she  must  not  miss  the  dance/  cried  one  of 
the  cats.  And  sure  enough  the  daughter,  to 
her  horror,  heard  her  mother  call  as  they 
passed  the  house  of  the  Overseer :  '  Mistress 
Overseer  L.  must  not  miss  the  dance.' 
Whereupon  Mistress  L.,  disguised  as  a  sleek, 
fat  cat,  black  as  Erebus,  leaped  from  a  win- 
dow and  hastened  on  to  Brocken  to  join  the 
Prince  of  Darkness." 

When  the  party  broke  up  for  the  night,  we, 
who  a  few  hours  ago  met  in  the  hallways 
with  the  enveloping  silences  of  strangers, 
were  now  almost  like  a  family  party  cheerily 
commenting  on  the  agreeable  evening  and 
bidding  one  another  a  friendly  good-night. 

97 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  What,"  asked  Fraulein  Hoppe  gayly, 
"  think  you  of  our  German  old  wives'  tales  ? " 

"  Old  wives'  tales,"  said  I,  "  and  young 
wives'  faces  —  both  are  very  pretty  and  in- 
teresting." 

She  gave  me  a  comical  look  of  utter  hope- 
lessness and  despair  and  said  good-night. 

In  my  room  I  endeavored  by  candle-light 
to  write  up  my  note-book,  lest  the  expe- 
riences of  the  day  should  fade  from  my 
memory.  But  my  eyes  and  limbs  were  heavy, 
and,  besides,  I  knew  I  should  never  for- 
get this  day  in  the  Hartz  nor  this  night  at 
Klausthal. 

Klausthal,  the  word,  means  "  the  vale  of 
the  hermitage,"  and  was  not  really  settled 
until  about  1 544,  whereas  the  little  sister-city 
of  Zellerfeld,  which  is  really  one  and  indivis- 
ible with  Klausthal,  was  created  by  monks  of 
the  thrifty  order  of  St.  Simon  and  St.  Jude 
about  the  year  1 200.  The  monks,  after  their 
fashion,  chose  the  pleasantest  spot  in  the 

98 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

neighborhood  for  their  monastery,  which  was 
a  kind  of  pious  hostelry  and  station  for  way- 
farers on  the  road  to  Goslar.  To-day,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  a  brewery  stands  on  the  site  of  the 
ancient  cloisters,  and  the  refreshment  it  af- 
fords the  wayfarer  is  not  so  piously  adminis- 
tered as  that  by  the  monks  of  old.  Mine  after 
mine,  rich  in  iron  ore  and  silver,  was  uncov- 
ered by  the  Dukes  and  Duchesses  who  ruled 
this  region,  and  to  this  day  Klausthal  and 
Zellerfeld  are  still  bringing  forth  the  gifts 
of  the  earth. 

Here,  too,  the  name  of  Tilly  is  still  a  dread- 
ful sound,  for  in  the  Seventeenth  Century  he 
brought  the  sword  and  fire  and  pestilence  to 
both  Zellerfeld  and  Klausthal ;  he  made  bur- 
densome levies  and  "drowned'*  the  mines, 
from  all  of  which  it  took  generations  to 
recover.  Remnants  of  Tilly's  fortifications 
are  still  to  be  found  at  Klausthal.  Jerome 
Bonaparte,  also,  at  a  later  date,  did  much  to 
impoverish  this  section  of  the  Hartz  during 

99 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

his  brief  reign  as  King  of  Westphalia.  His 
voracious  brother  needed  money  for  his  wars, 
and  "little  brother  Jerome  "  took  all  he  could 
out  of  Klausthal  and  Zellerfeld.  But  like  your 
wiry  men  of  no  great  strength  or  stature  who 
seem  proof  against  ills  and  sufferings,  the  two 
little  cities  stand  calm  and  unpretentious, 
prosperous,  though  by  no  means  tempting 
providence. 

Klausthal's  one  "monument,"  which  I 
saw  upon  entering  the  town,  is  the  wooden 
church,  said  to  be  the  greatest  fane  built  of 
wood  in  all  the  world.  It  is,  indeed,  a  large 
rambling  building  with  a  double  tower,  not 
unlike  a  Russian  church,  that  does  not  invite 
the  eye  a  second  time.  Not  far  away  is  the 
Mining  Academy,  said  to  be  one  of  the  best 
in  Europe,  built  by  Jerome  Bonaparte — the 
one  good  thing  he  did  for  the  Hartz.  In 
Heine's  day  there  was  a  mint  at  Klausthal  for 
silver  coin  in  which  the  poet  professed  only 
a  hopelessly  academic  interest.  The  mint  is 

100 


GOSLAR  THE  GLORIOUS 


The  Enchanted  Hill  Man 

here  no  more,  and  of  the  mines  Dorothea  and 
Carolina,  which  he  visited  with  much  inter- 
est, one  is  now  wholly  abandoned  and  the 
other  I  decided  not  to  seek.  For  here  again  I 
knew  that  Heine  had  the  advantage  of  me. 
When  he  descended  into  the  depths  of  the 
"  Carolina,"  some,  he  declared,  already  heard 
the  Americans  shouting  "Hurrah  for  Lafay- 
ette." I  knew  I  should  hear  nothing  of  the 
sort. 

The  air  of  Klausthal  is  said  to  be  singularly 
bracing.  The  great  Goethe  tells  us  that  he  had 
to  flee  from  '*  mouldy  "  Goslar  to  the  clearer 
air  of  Klausthal.  In  his  letters  to  Frau  von 
Stein  he  refers  more  than  once  to  the  invigor- 
ating atmosphere  of  this  region,  for  which 
he  confesses  a  nostalgia. 

"  The  best  part  of  this  journey,"  wrote 
Minister  Goethe  from  Klausthal  in  Decem- 
ber, 1 777,  "  is  that  all  my  own  ideas  of  ad- 
ministration are  at  every  step  confirmed  ;  be 
it  a  farm  or  a  principality,  it  is  all  so  simple 
101 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

that  one  has  small  need  to  travel  if  one  but 
has  the  wit  to  learn  at  home."  That  is  the 
one  conclusion  to  which  every  Hartz  traveler 
arrives:  that  at  bottom,  despite  all  appar- 
ent complexity,  the  best  in  life  is  a  vastly 
simple  matter.  Small  wonder  that  from  Goe- 
the's day  to  this  every  thoughtful,  educated 
German,  soon  or  late,  feels  impelled  to  make 
a  tour  in  the  Hartz.  And  how  many  a  poet 
or  thinker,  world-weary  and  despondent,  has 
left  the  aching  of  his  heart  in  this  salubrious 
air  and  come  back  to  the  world  refreshed  with 
new  strength !  I  pitied  William  of  Hohen- 
zollern,  who,  now  that  he  is  Emperor,  cannot 
repeat  thejourney  he  made  in  the  careless  days 
of  his  youth.  Willingly,  I  knew,  would  he 
sleep  again  in  the  purple  bed  that  once  was 
his,  but  which  now  tendered  me  its  luxuries, 
if  only  he  could  leave  his  cares  behind.  The 
rain  whipped  incessantly  upon  the  panes,  and 
swiftly  I  sank  into  the  sleep  that  fears  no 
waking. 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

CHAPTER  VIII 
THE   HARTZ  AIR-CURE 

Away  on  the  fair  horizon 

The  city  with  spire  and  tower 

Appears  like  a  vision  in  cloudland 
Veiled  by  the  twilight  hour. 

HEINE. 

WHEN  I  awoke  the  next  morning  the 
sun  shone  cold  and  pale  into  my  royal 
chamber,  and  nothing  could  have  induced 
me  to  rise  had  I  not  been  suddenly  surprised 
by  the  soothing  music  of  the  herd-bells  that 
pleased  me  so  much  the  day  before.  I  leaped 
from  my  royal  couch  to  the  window  to  see 
the  sleek,  patient  cattle,  belled  and  stately, 
being  driven  out  to  pasture.  The  quiet  street, 
the  ambling  cows,  the  mail  coach  at  the 
post-office  door,  all  presented  a  picture  so 
sweet  and  wholesome  that  I  felt  a  momen- 
103 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

tary  desire  to  go  out  at  once  to  the  landlord 
and  make  terms  with  him  for  a  life  tenure 
of  my  apartment.  But  I  knew  that  do  what 
we  will  we,  poor  mortals,  cannot  imprison 
and  hold  captive  those  fleeting  impressions 
of  pleasure  and  beauty  that  visit  us  all  during 
life.  Now  and  then  an  artist  can  rivet  a 
scene  to  a  canvas ;  but  even  pictures  are 
nothing  more  than  materials  to  serve  the 
imagination. 

A  small  boy  of  six  or  seven  was  standing 
under  my  window  as  the  herd  passed,  and 
with  unconscious  abandon  he  was  giving 
a  musical  rendering  of  the  early  morning 
clucking  of  a  hen. 

"  Tsuck,  tsuck,  tsuck,  mein  Huhnchen, 
Tsuck,  tsuck,  tsuck,  mein  Ei !  " 

Such  were  the  words  of  his  song,  and  he 
repeated  them  over  and  over  in  a  delicious 
childish  treble.  An  American  boy  would 
have  sung :  — 

104 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

"  Cluck,  cluck,  cluck,  my  chicken, 
Cluck,  cluck,  cluck,  my  Egg," 

but  I  knew  I  should  never  hear  that  song  in 
America. 

I  dressed  leisurely,  rang  for  my  coffee,  and 
when  I  descended  the  stairs  with  my  pack 
on  my  back,  ready  to  pay  my  score  and  de- 
part, I  found  that  Herr  Geheimrath  Hoppe, 
his  wife  and  his  daughter  had  left  the  inn 
nearly  two  hours  before  on  their  way  to 
Goslar.  At  this  I  felt  aggrieved,  and  the  igno- 
miny of  my  late  rising  came  home  to  me 
sharply.  I  had  looked  forward  to  a  pleasant 
walk  in  the  company  of  that  family,  particu- 
larly in  that  of  the  old  gentleman. 

I  made  a  wry  face  as  I  looked  out  upon 
the  street,  muddy  with  the  night's  rain,  and 
asked  the  Duke  how  far  it  was  to  Goslar. 
A  day's  journey,  he  informed  me,  and  in  his 
distant,  detached  manner  allowed  it  to  be 
understood  that  there  was  a  railway  station 
not  a  hundred  miles  away.  I  did  not  choose 

105 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

to  take  the  hint,  and  with  a  last  look  at  the 
hospitable  "  Krone  "  I  once  again  set  forth 
on  my  travels.  As  I  passed  over  the  ancient 
boundary  from  Klausthal  into  Zellerfeld  the 
pale  sun  hid  behind  a  black  cloud  and  a 
shower  of  rain  plumped  down  to  consecrate 
the  day.  In  some  dudgeon  I  knocked  at 
a  door  bearing  the  sign  of  a  wagoner  and 
liveryman  and  asked  the  price  of  horses  to 
Hahnenklee,  a  point  about  midway  to  Gos- 
lar.  By  the  time  I  arrived  at  Hahnenklee, 
the  rain,  I  thought,  should  cease.  The  mas- 
ter wagoner  named  a  large  sum,  but  anyhow, 
he  said,  his  horses  were  all  at  the  railway 
station.  I  sat  down  to  wait,  and  in  the  room 
with  me  sat  a  white-haired,  parchment-faced 
old  woman  rocking  a  child  in  a  cradle  and 
telling  it  a  story:  Heine's  observation,  touch- 
ing the  personification  of  inanimate  objects 
and  household  utensils  in  this  region,  came 
to  my  mind  as  I  listened.  The  old  crone 
was  relating  a  tale  of  the  violent  opposition 

106 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

on  the  part  of  the  cradle  to  entertain  its 
present  incumbent,  but  the  pillows  being  of 
a  kindlier  and  softer  nature,  finally  prevailed. 
At  intervals  she  would  break  into  snatches 
of  song  about  the  gentry  who  "  with  their 
weapons  and  with  their  pistols  rode  straight 
into  Poland."  And  when  she  stopped  the 
drowsy  little  rogue  would  call  for  "more 
pistols."  The  rain  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it 
began  and  I  decided  not  to  wait  for  horses 
after  all.  I  moved  on  through  Zellerfeld, 
and  soon  I  was  in  the  open  road  again  with 
the  wet  woods  glistening  on  either  hand  and 
the  famous  Hartz  throstle  breaking  into 
heart-filling  melody  under  the  emerging 
sun-rays. 

Avenue  after  avenue  of  pine  and  birch  and 
cedar  opened  up,  and  despite  the  moisture 
underfoot  my  heart  sang  again  in  the  joy  of 
the  winding  road.  Two  boys  with  a  dog  draw- 
ing a  little  cart  regularly  passed  me  on  the  way 
down  dale  and  fell  behind  again  when  it 
107 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

came  up  hill.  They  were  not  communica- 
tive lads,  but  I  had  their  silent  company 
nearly  all  the  way  to  Hahnenklee. 

The  green  folds  of  the  hills  round  about 
were  dotted  with  the  ubiquitous  Kurhaus  and 
stout  patients  come  for  the  cure.  Those  Kur- 
hauser  are  really  nothing  but  summer  hotels. 
The  cure  consists  in  breathing  and  eating. 
Many  a  sedentary  schoolmistress  ponderously 
moving  about  these  slopes  for  "summer- 
freshness,"  as  they  call  it,  laughed  aloud  at 
me  for  an  eccentric  to  be  trudging  through 
the  mud  with  a  pack  on  my  back.  I,  in  turn, 
laughed^at  her  as  I  observed  how  unbeautiful 
were  her  feet  upon  the  mountains.  For  the 
every-day  German  woman  is  almost  never 
trimly  shod,  and  Heine,  it  may  be  recalled, 
professed  to  have  made  studies  in  compara- 
tive anatomy  with  especial  reference  to  the 
feet  of  elephants  and  those  of  the  Gottingen 
dames.  In  the  groups  of  women  guests  taking 


1 08 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

their  morning  walk  I  was  forced  to  conclude 
that  many  hailed  from  Gottingen. 

Bockswiese,  a  little  village  on  the  way  to 
Hahnenklee,  is  almost  wholly  made  up  of 
Kurhauser.  The  rambling  wooden  hotels  and 
pensions  of  every  size  and  variety  have  the 
half-doomed  air  of  deciduous  plants.  Teem- 
ing though  they  were  now  with  clusters  of 
guests,  winter  would  see  them  stripped  and 
bare,  standing  gaunt  and  empty  against  the 
landscape.  Nevertheless,  Bockswiese,  nestling 
in  the  bosom  of  a  little  valley,  made  a  pretty 
showing  of  flowers  and  terraces,  and  I  decided 
to  take  luncheon  at  the  Kurhaus.  The  host 
was  a  clever-looking  German  who  had  made 
a  small  fortune  in  South  America,  which, 
with  a  post-graduate  course  in  prices  at  New 
York,  fitted  him  admirably  for  his  present 
occupation. 

I  took  my  meal  in  the  sun  parlor,  where 
reposed  many  full-bodiced  ladies  behind  glass 


109 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

windows,  like  specimens  in  a  museum  of  eth- 
nology. One  spirited  young  girl  of  sixteen, 
however,  not  only  gave  an  impression  of  life 
herself,  but  galvanized  others  into  a  sem- 
blance of  vivacity. 

"Why,"  she  asked,  with  passionate  ear- 
nestness, "do  they  call  this  *  summer  fresh- 
ness '  and  '  air-cure '  when  it  is  so  cold  and 
wet  that  we  have  to  be  shut  up  here  freezing 
without  a  taste  of  fresh  air?  One  might  as 
well  be  at  home.'*  I  smiled  to  myself  over  my 
schnitzel,  for  in  that  flaxen-haired,  pallid  girl 
I  perceived  an  original  thinker,  fit  country- 
woman of  Kant  and  Nietzsche  and  Schopen- 
hauer. The  stout  women  listened  to  her  in 
speechless  stolidity.  But  upon  seeing  the  grin 
on  the  face  of  the  stranger  some  of  them  be- 
gan to  quiver  with  unintelligent  laughter. 
Observing  this,  the  girl  turned  upon  me  for 
a  moment  two  blue  eyes  filled  with  bitter 
pride,  and  I  felt  rebuked.  The  weather,  I 
learned,  had  been  indeed  bad  for  several  days 
/  no 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

in  this  locality.  But  the  heavy  ladies  had 
come  here  to  take  the  air-cure,  for  a  certain 
period ;  and  by  very  force  of  gravitation  they 
stuck  to  the  programme  even  though  they 
could  not  leave  the  house.  Ordinarily,  how- 
ever, Bockswiese  and  the  neighboring  village 
of  Hahnenklee  are  said  to  be  pleasant  resorts 
and  invigorating. 

I  left  both  of  these  villages  behind,  and 
under  a  sun  growing  pale  and  paler,  like  the 
slave  in  the  "  Asra,"  I  pushed  on  to  Goslar. 
Goslar !  The  name  had  been  ringing  in  my 
head  during  all  the  years  since  my  boyhood. 
That  word  had  always  been  mellifluous  and 
musical  to  my  ear,  and  a  picture  of  the  city  it 
denominated  had  been  built  up  in  my  mind 
by  years  of  dreaming  and  imagining.  Heine's 
mountain  child  had  sung,  — 

"  Aber  seit  die  Muhme  tot  ist, 
Konnen  wir  ja  nicht  mehr  gehn 
Nach  dem  Schutzenhof  zu  Goslar 
Und  dort  ist  es  gar  zu  schon." 
Ill 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Now  that  dear  Aunt  has  gone, 
We  can  never  more  repair 
To  the  Goslar  Shooting  Park, 
There  it  is  too  gay  and  fair. 

It  was  my  fond  hope  that  Goslar  would  not 
disappoint  me.  People,  and  places  too,  I  knew 
full  well,  had  a  melancholy  fashion  of  falling 
short  upon  first  sight,  or  upon  comparison 
with  the  early  ideal.  Of  this  truth  I  had  al- 
ready gleaned  bitter  experience  in  the  instance 
of  a  certain  poppy-field.  A  child  I  once  knew 
had  become  passionately  and  deeply  attached 
to  a  certain  brilliant  field  of  poppy.  In  his 
sweet  and  placid  country  life,  that  field  of 
scarlet  poppy  stood  out  as  might  a  lively  ro- 
mance in  an  otherwise  uneventful  existence. 
It  kept  stirring  a  procession  of  vague,  deli- 
cious fancies  in  the  childish  mind. 

When  he  went  to  the  roaring  city  to  live 
and  to  learn,  many  a  picture  of  his  earlier 
life  grew  dim  and  faded  in  the  tumult  of  the 
town-life.  But  the  brilliant,  scarlet  poppy 

112 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

field  kept  growing  ever  more  brilliant  and 
more  scarlet  in  his  mind  and  ever  vaster  in 
extent.  It  was  no  longer  a  field  at  all,  but  a 
whole  poppy  country,  a  glowing  demesne 
stretching  with  every  year  farther  and  far- 
ther until  it  was  difficult  to  see  its  confines. 

After  some  years  the  child's  parents  de- 
cided to  pay  a  visit  to  that  countryside  and 
to  take  him  with  them.  He  longed  fever- 
ishly for  the  end  of  that  journey.  His  father 
and  mother  speculated  upon  the  welfare  of 
this  neighbor  or  the  vicissitudes  of  that. 
But  the  boy  kept  gazing  out  of  the  window 
and  craning  his  neck  eagerly  for  a  sight  of 
the  land  of  heart's  desire.  It  seemed  strange 
that  when  he  stepped  out  at  the  station  he 
could  not  already  see  the  stretch  of  scarlet 
country.  He  leaned  forward  in  the  carriage 
to  catch  the  earliest  possible  glimpse  of  it. 

At  last  he  saw  it.  Like  some  wonderful 
jewel  the  vivid  color  flashed  from  that  plain 
of  surrounding  green.  His  little  heart  gave 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

a  great  leap  with  utter  joy,  and,  as  soon  as 
he  alighted,  he  ran  headlong  to  his  loved 
domain,  and  at  last  he  stood  on  the  edge  of 
it.  Something  caught  at  his  throat  as  he 
looked ;  the  tears  welled  up  in  his  eyes  and 
for  a  moment  drowned  the  entire  picture. 
For  this  field  that  his  young  imagination 
had  developed  during  the  years  into  a  whole 
glowing,  vast  poppy  country,  was  nothing 
more  than  a  mere  garden  plot. 

I  was  sorry  I  had  left  Hahnenklee. 

The  sun  completely  disappeared,  and  a  sky 
of  lead,  taking  matters  into  its  own  hands, 
began  to  drizzle  a  thin  persistent  rain  that 
seemed  to  aim  at  the  marrow  of  unprotected 
travelers.  The  woods  were  dank  and  wet 
and  I  had  no  cloak  or  umbrella ;  so  I  trudged 
on  in  the  hope  of  soon  finding  a  shelter  of 
some  sort.  Before  long  I  heard  the  cracking 
of  a  whip  and  from  a  turn  in  the  road  behind 
me  the  post  coach  came  rolling  with  four 
steaming  horses  and  a  picturesque  superstruc- 

114 


The  Hartz,  Air-Cure 

ture  of  trunks  and  boxes  on  the  roof.  There 
was  my  salvation.  I  hailed  the  coach  and  in 
a  moment  the  uncomfortable  pedestrian  sat 
pleasantly  surrounded  by  a  score  or  so  of 
warm  fellow  passengers  speeding  to  Goslar 
in  a  coach-and-four.  s 

The  feelings  I  experienced  in  that  coach 
convinced  me  that  the  interest  we  take  in 
life  is  a  more  or  less  constant  factor  with 
each  of  us,  depending  only  upon  our  hearts 
and  heads,  not  upon  external  circumstances. 
I  remember  being  present  at  the  meeting  of 
the  envoys  of  two  great  nations  bent  upon 
making  peace  after  a  bitter  war.  No  doubt 
I  was  pleased  to  be  there  and  interested  in 
the  participants.  Here,  in  the  sombre  soli- 
tude of  the  Hartz,  where  men  and  events  are 
scarcer,  I  seemed  to  myself  almost  as  pleased 
to  be  taken  from  the  wet  road  and  put  among 
this  strange  company  of  passengers, — and 
almost  as  much  interested  in  them.  So,  to 
the  pioneer  in  the  wilderness  a  new  human 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

being  is  an  event,  and  to  the  desert  traveler, 
another  traveler. 

A  stout  middle-aged  woman  with  an  eager, 
vivacious  air  that  distinguished  her  from  the 
others  nodded,  smiled  and  asked  me  in  Eng- 
lish was  I  not  an  American.  She,  too,  was 
an  American,  from  Washington,  D.  C.,  she 
informed  me;  and  that  accounted  for  her 
vivacity.  She  had  been  born  in  Germany 
and  now  she  was  a  resident  of  Berlin,  but  she 
persisted  in  proclaiming  herself  an  Ameri- 
can, and  that  cost  her  dear.  For  the  guard, 
dissatisfied  with  the  trinkgeld  she  had  given 
him  on  a  previous  journey,  disregarded  the 
ticket  she  held  and  roundly  accused  her  at 
every  halting  place  of  not  paying  her  fare. 

"  Ich  kenne  die  Dame,"  he  repeated  over 
and  over  again,  and  the  fact  that  he  "  knew 
the  lady  "  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  warrant  for 
insulting  her.  I,  myself,  did  not  get  to  the 
root  of  the  controversy  until  some  time  after, 
for  I  had  come  in  the  middle  of  it.  The 

116 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

guard  had  been  abusing  the  woman  ever 
since  the  coach  left  Hahnenklee.  But  a 
little  bewhiskered,  schoolmasterish  person 
who  understood  the  entire  business  from 
the  first  kept  repeating,  after  the  guard  had 
jumped  to  his  box, — 

"  I  cannot  grasp  that  man's  standpoint, 
I  have  no  idea  of  his  concept ; "  but  never 
a  word  when  the  guard  was  at  the  door. 

Some  of  the  women  grinned  and  snick- 
ered at  the  poor  lady's  discomfiture,  all  of 
which  she  had  brought  upon  herself  by  too 
openly  declaring  she  was  an  American,  so 
that  twice  as  much  was  expected  from  her 
by  way  of  trinkgeld.  Despite  our  assump- 
tion of  politeness  on  the  part  of  Europeans 
generally,  the  middle-class  German,  man  or 
woman,  is  anything  but  well-bred  or  agree- 
able, except  very  superficially.  When  I 
finally  realized  the  occasion  of  the  guard's 
rudeness  and  remonstrated  with  him,  he 
would  only  snarl  back, — 

117 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  I  know  the  lady  ;  I  know  the  lady." 
On  through  the  rain  we  swung  with  a 
great  spattering  of  mud  and  cracking  of 
whips,  up  hill  and  down  hill,  now  deep  in 
a  ravine  of  road  among  the  sky-shouldering 
pines,  now  on  the  edge  of  precipitous  ba- 
sins, dark  green  and  forest-covered,  hun- 
dreds of  feet  deep.  At  last  the  spires  and 
turrets  of  Goslar  loomed  through  the  mist 
and  I  beheld  the  wet  slate  and  tile  roofs  of 
an  embattled  city,  so  mediaeval  in  aspect 
that  it  surpassed  even  my  optimistic  imagin- 
ings: for  only  in  Froissart  had  I  seen  de- 
picted anything  like  Goslar  in  the  Hartz. 

In  the  coach  a  lady  from  Leipzig  had 
mentioned  the  hotel  Zum  Achtermann  as 
a  pleasant  hostelry;  so,  without  consulting 
the  guide-book,  I  marched  straight  upon 
that  stronghold  and  beheld  with  delight 
that  it  was  a  stronghold  indeed  —  a  mass- 
ive round  tower  of  the  best  Middle  Age 
masonry,  part  of  Goslar's  city  wall.  Round 

118 


The  Hartz  Air-Cure 

this  tower  was  built  a  modern  hotel  filled 
with  German  tourists  and  doing  a  roaring 
trade.  But  so  soundly  had  the  burghers  of 
old  builded  the  city  that  their  spirits  still 
seemed  to  be  hovering  over  the  tumult 
within  these  walls  and  the  most  unimagi- 
native person  could  not  help  picturing  the 
swash-buckling  captains  who  held  the  tower 
centuries  ago. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

CHAPTER    IX 

GOSLAR    THE     GLORIOUS 

Set  mir  gegrusst,  du  grosse, 
Geheimnissvolle  stadt. 

HEINE. 

HAD  it  not  been  for  the  rubicund,  ci- 
gar-smoking men,  the  fat  women  in 
badly  made  clothes,  and  a  few  shops  with 
garish  "  American  "  display  windows,  Gos- 
lar  would  still  have  seemed  the  mediaeval 
city  of  Barbarossa  and  of  Henry  the  Fowler. 
Heine  relates  his  disappointment  in  the  city. 
But  Heine  was  no  lover  of  Kings  and  the 
kingly  associations  of  Goslar  may  have 
caused  him  to  enter  it  in  a  spirit  of  mock- 
ery and  irritation.  The  "  narrow  labyrin- 
thian  streets"  offended  the  poet,  whereas 
they  are  part  of  the  charm  of  the  place. 
For  land  there  is  in  abundance  round  about 
1 20 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

Goslar  and  plenty  of  room  to  stretch.  But 
in  a  walled  city  you  have  to  make  the  most 
of  what  room  you  have  within  or  be  spilt 
out  into  unprotected  solitude.  One  disap- 
pointment, however,  does  await  the  trav- 
eler to-day  —  the  Goslar  Shooting  Park. 

"  There  it  is  too  gay  and  fair," 

sings  Heine  himself.  If  you  come  there 
now  on  a  bright  summer  day  you  will  find 
much  linen  hung  out  to  dry,  and  not  royal 
linen,  either.  I  had  not  been  in  Goslar  half 
an  hour  before  I  sought  out  the  Shooting 
Park.  But  my  disappointment  in  both  the 
dimensions  of  the  "  Park  "  and  its  present 
mean  uses  was  wholly  forgotten  when  I 
beheld  in  a  little  solemn  group,  gazing  de- 
jectedly at  the  wet  flapping  garments,  the 
otherwise  cheerful  family  of  Hoppe.  As  I 
approached  them  we  looked  at  one  another 
for  a  moment,  and  then  burst  into  relieving 
laughter. 

121 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"You  did  wake  up  after  all,"  remarked 
Fraulein  Hoppe  with  incisive  cordiality,  and 
the  mere  commonplaces  of  greeting  uttered 
by  her  parents  passed  completely  over  my 
head,  for  I  have  not  any  notion  of  what 
they  said.  My  cheeks  felt  hot  for  the  frac- 
tion of  a  second,  and  Frau  Hoppe  shot  a  re- 
proachful glance  at  her  daughter.  But  that 
damsel  did  not  choose  to  see  it,  and  added 
sweetly  that  she  too  had  always  entertained 
an  ambition  to  sleep  two  or  three  days  at  a 
time,  but  only  in  America,  she  supposed, 
could  that  accomplishment  be  acquired. 

"  The  habit  of  sufficient  sleep,  Fraulein," 
I  replied  with  an  effort  to  collect  my  wits, 
"smooths  out  our  tempers  and  tends  to  make 
us  kind  to  the  unfortunate/'  It  was  Frau- 
lein's  turn  to  blush. 

"Some unfortunates,"  she  answered  tartly, 
"deserve  no  kindness."  Womanlike  she  in- 
sisted on  the  last  word.  The  Herr  Geheim- 
rath  smiled  with  dancing  eyes  under  his 

122 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

bushy  eyebrows ;  but  Frau  Hoppe  looked 
bewildered  and  did  not  seem  quite  to  com- 
prehend. 

Together  we  strolled  away  from  theSchut- 
zenhof  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  town ;  for 
though  my  friends  had  arrived  considerably 
earlier  they  were  forced  to  spend  much  time 
within  doors  while  their  clothes  were  a-dry- 
ing.  Fraulein  Hoppe  looked  at  my  own 
seemingly  dry  garments  with  suspicion  and 
asked  whether  the  railway  journey  from 
Zellerfeld  to  Goslar  were  interesting. 

"  Holla  !  "  cried  the  spirited  Councillor, 
laughing,  and  throwing  up  his  hand  as  an 
umpire  does  a  sword  at  a  students'  duel. 
"  That  is  unfair,  and  we  believe  nothing  of 
the  sort  on  the  part  of  the  Herr."  I  thanked 
him  meekly  for  defending  a  stranger  who 
was  in  need  of  defense  and  Fraulein  laughed 
softly  at  her  own  thrust.  I  did  not  pursue  the 
subject,  for  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  coach  just 
starting  on  the  return  trip  to  Hahnenklee. 

123 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

My  friends  were  staying  at  an  hotel  called 
Kaiserworth,  in  the  marketplace,  and  thither 
we  bent  our  steps  through  the  narrow  streets 
that  so  displeased  Heine.  In  the  shops  was 
a  rich  display  of  pots  and  vases  and  whole 
table-services  made  of  shining  zinc,  for  which 
Goslar  is  famous.  Soon  we  were  in  the  heart 
of  "Old  Goslar,"  which  architecturally  is 
the  Germany  of  five  hundred  to  a  thousand 
years  back.  At  any  moment  you  expect  a 
Hans  Sachs  or  a  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide 
to  emerge  from  a  gabled  house  humming  a 
tune  of  the  Meistersinger. 

"Goslar,"  said  the  Geheimrath  with  en- 
thusiasm, "is  a  monument  of  Ancient  Sax- 
ony in  splendid  preservation." 

"The  only  living  guide-book  in  captiv- 
ity," added  Fraulein,  somewhat  irreverently, 
putting  her  hand  on  her  father's  arm.  But 
as  she  said  this  a  look  of  gentle,  affectionate 
tenderness  flashed  from  her  to  her  father, 
and  the  old  gentleman  pressed  her  hand  to 

124 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

his  side.  I  thought  I  detected  moisture  in 
his  eye  as  he  went  on, — 

"  Every  stone  of  Goslar  is  dear  to  me.  It  is 
nearly  thirty  years  since  I  first  came  here  as 
a  student  making  my  Hartz  journey.  Here 
it  was  that  I  saw  for  the  first  time  my  wife. 
She  had  beautiful  golden  hair  and  a  roguish 
eye  and  she  had  come  here  for  the  day  with 
a  sightseeing  party  from  Harzburg." 

"  Carl ! "  murmured  the  Frau  Geheimrath 
with  ill-concealed  pleasure,  remonstrating  in 
a  purely  general  way. 

"  I  followed  their  carriage  on  foot,"  the 
Geheimrath  ran  on  delightedly,  with  the 
bit  in  his  teeth,  "  and  I  never  lost  sight  of 
it  all  the  way  —  I  was  young  then  —  and 
that  night  I  slept  at  the  same  hotel  at  Harz- 
burg. Now,"  he  added  rather  inconsequen- 
tially, "  here  is  this  child  by  our  side,  making 
the  same  Harzreise." 

"  Thrilling  !  "  exclaimed  the  daughter 
lightly.  "It  seems  almost  as  though  I  were 

125 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

hearing  the  tale  for  the  first  time."  But 
despite  this  mild  sarcasm  she,  too,  seemed 
pleased. 

The  square  of  the  marketplace  is  like  a 
picture  in  oils  of  some  mediaeval  scene  sel- 
dom found  save  on  canvas.  Some  of  the 
buildings  date  back  to  the  Tenth  Century, 
and  yet  remain  in  excellent  repair.  In  the 
centre  is  a  fountain  shaped  like  a  large  basin 
of  metal.  In  the  event  of  a  fire  some  one  beats 
upon  the  metal  and  it  sounds  the  alarm  like 
a  mighty  church  bell.  It  is  believed  that 
the  Guild  of  the  Bell  Founders  presented  it 
to  the  town  four  or  five  hundred  years  ago, 
but  legend  has  it  that  the  Devil  brought  the 
fountain  as  a  gift  to  Goslar.  "  In  those  days," 
says  Heine,  "  the  people  were  stupid  and  the 
Devil  was  stupid,  too ;  so  they  gave  each 
other  gifts." 

Folk  were  strolling  about  the  narrow  mar- 
ketplace in  the  neighborhood  of  the  foun- 
tain ;  and  with  an  odd  mixture  of  holiday 

126 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

gayety  and  pious  veneration  for  those  ancient 
monuments  of  German  art  and  prowess,  they 
disappeared  down  streets  and  lanes,  Right 
Upper  Entrance  and  Left  Upper  Entrance, 
like  figures  on  a  stage.  The  Kaiserworth, 
built  in  1492,  as  Guild  House  of  the  Broad- 
cloth Tailors,  is  now  an  hotel  and  on  this 
day  was  teeming  with  custom.  With  its 
colonnade  of  pillars  and  arches,  its  steep  red 
roof,  dwarfed  windows,  and  strange,  squat 
buttresses  and  dormer  windows,  it  takes  your 
eye  more  than  perhaps  anything  else  at 
Goslar.  But  instead  of  prosperous  German 
tourists  you  expect  to  see  the  grave,  bearded 
members  of  the  Guild  in  trunk  hose  and 
balloon-sleeved  doublets  of  a  modest  hue 
bustling  hither  and  thither  about  the  house, 
not  without  a  pride  in  themselves,  in  their 
imposing  home,  and  in  the  royal  city  of 
Goslar  in  the  Hartz.  From  among  those 
placidly  drinking  out  of  doors  under  the 
arches  a  party  of  tourists,  young  and  old, 

127 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

came  forth,  and,  embarking  in  two  carriages, 
departed  for  Harzburg.  The  Geheimrath 
nudged  me  as  he  heard  the  order  to  the 
driver. 

"  Precisely  the  same  story  —  thirty  years 
ago,"  he  whispered,  and  we  took  the  places 
of  the  departing  tourists  under  the  arches. 

"  My  favorite,"  says  George  Borrow,  "  I 
might  say,  my  only  study,  is  man."  Man, 
certainly,  in  the  persons  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cillor and  his  family,  seemed  a  far  more 
absorbing  study  than  even  this  quaint  and 
picturesque  spot  which  many  believe  to  be 
more  alluring  than  Nuremberg.  Never  hav- 
ing seen  Nuremberg  I  cannot  say.  But  one 
of  the  chief  pleasures  of  foreign  travel  I  was 
now  enjoying  fully.  I  had  become  the  inti- 
mate of  these  fine  specimens  of  foreigners 
in  their  own  land,  conversed  in  their  own 
tongue,  shared  their  holiday  mood  and  even 
their  sentiment. 

"Now  I  am  gray  and  old,"  said  the 
128 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

Councillor  with  a  touch  of  melancholy,  that 
constant  attendant  upon  the  German  rejoic- 
ing, "  now  I  am  gray  and  old,  yet  this  place 
is  wholly  unchanged." 

"I  could  swear,"  put  in  his  wife,  "that 
yonder  nuns  drinking  beer  are  the  same  two 
nuns  I  saw  that  day  we  came  from  Harz- 
burg." 

There  indeed  sat  two  stout  nuns  in  their 
trappings  of  renunciation,  partaking  of  the 
universal  beverage.  No  one  seemed  in  the 
least  concerned  about  them  or  their  beer- 
drinking,  and  I  remarked  that  in  no  English- 
speaking  country  could  nuns  be  seen  drinking 
beer  in  public. 

"  Ach,  but  then  neither  could  my  wife  and 
daughter  drink  beer  in  public  in  English- 
speaking  countries,"  rejoined  the  Councillor 
with  a  smile.  "  We  are  not  like  that  here. 
But,"  he  added,  "we  have  other  faults. 
Every  land  has  its  virtues  and  its  faults.  Eng- 
land has  much  liberty  and  little  tolerance; 

129 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

you  Americans  have  great  strength  and  lack 
—  some  other  things.  We  Germans — " 

"Have  all  the  virtues!"  caught  up  his 
sprightly  daughter  with  gusto  and  an  em- 
phatic nod  of  the  head.  We  all  laughed 
and  abandoned  serious  conversation  for  the 
time. 

The  square  was  filled  with  sunlight  and 
life,  and  the  ancient  buildings  that  had  stood 
about  this  spot  for  so  many  centuries,  some 
illumined  and  some  in  the  shade,  seemed 
almost  to  be  endowed  with  a  life  of  their 
own,  full  of  a  homely  beauty  and  a  quiet 
distinction,  but  little  touched  by  the  tooth 
of  time.  The  Romanesque  market  church, 
with  its  slender  towers,  dating  back  to  the 
Twelfth  Century,  still  stands  firm  and  grace- 
ful with  many  years,  if  not  centuries,  of  life 
before  it.  The  Brusttuch,  perhaps  the  origi- 
nal "flat-iron"  building,  with  a  roof  incred- 
ibly steep  and  high,  has  been  proclaiming, 
since  1 526,  the  taste  and  learning  of  Master 

130 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

Thelling,  whose  name  is  inscribed  upon  a 
board  in  Greek  letters,  thus : 

MAriSTEP   BHAAIFK 

The  Brusttuch  is  a  hotel  to-day.  Less  pre- 
tentious and  more  beautiful  is  the  Fifteenth 
Century  Gothic  Rathaus,rich  with  the  orna- 
ments and  embellishments  of  five  hundred 
years  of  civic  pride,  and  softly  mellow,  though 
not  crumbling,  in  the  afternoon  sun.  "  I  am 
steeped  in  roofs  and  masonry  of  an  ancient 
day,"  wrote  Goethe  from  Goslar,  and  that 
was  more  than  a  hundred  and  thirty  years 
gone  by. 

The  folk  who  sat  at  the  tables  about  us, 
drinking  genially  and  whole-heartedly,  were 
assuredly  less  picturesque  than  the  "  roofs  and 
masonry,"  and,  to  the  naked  eye,  less  interest- 
ing. "  A  fine  agglomeration  of  Philistines  " 
was  Goethe's  experience;  "one  feels  quite 
comfortable  here."  We  also,  the  Hoppe  fam- 
ily and  myself,  felt  at  ease  among  the  good 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

folk  whose  enjoyment  of  life  was  simple  and 
visible.  It  lay  chiefly  in  beer  and  schnitzel 
and  wienerwurst.  Hans  was  holding  Elsa's 
hand  under  the  table  and  Max  was  seeking 
Gretchen's.  The  friends  of  the  sweethearts 
caught  them  and  rallied  them,  and  Hans's 
father  or  Gretchen's  would  say  with  a  guf- 
faw,— 

"So  I  made  it,  too,  when  I  was  young,"  to 
the  general  joy  of  the  party,  and  to  all  within 
earshot.  There  was  no  fashionable  touristry 
here ;  only  those  classes  called,  in  the  words 
of  Goethe,  "  the  lower,  but  in  the  sight  of 
God,  surely  the  highest."  For  in  them,  so 
Goethe  believed,  reside  all  the  virtues,  self- 
control,  contentment,  common  sense,  truth, 
and,  best  of  all,  patience. 

The  author  of  "Werther"  and"Gotz" 
could  mingle  on  equal  terms  with  people 
of  this  order  only  by  traveling  incognito  as 
"Weber,  an  artist  .  .  .  very  polite  to  all." 
Happily  I  stood  in  need  of  no  such  devices, 

132 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

so  I  could  go  to  and  fro  among  them  with 
perfect  immunity.  According  to  a  middle 
high-German  proverb, — 

"  Kumt  ein  ohse  in  fremdiu  lant 
Er  wirt  doch  fur  ein  rint  erkannt." 

And  conies  an  ox  to  foreign  land, 
He  's  known  for  cattle,  out  of  hand. 
•   ^ 

I  was  known  for  a  stranger  at  once,  but 
my  desire  to  chat  with  the  good  people  was 
too  obvious  to  be  misinterpreted.  When  the 
Hoppes  went  up  to  their  rooms,  I  lingered 
below,  and  soon  there  came  to  my  table  three 
clerks  from  Berlin,  who  entertained  me  with 
the  gossip  of  the  capital  in  the  version  of  the 
"department  store"  employee.  They  were 
honest,  vulgar  men,  who  had  left  their  wives 
at  home  and  made  holiday  in  a  half  boister- 
ous, half  sentimental  humor.  Under  their 
commonplace  chatter  I  discerned  a  genuine 
desire  to  behold  noble  and  beautiful  scenery, 
to  emulate  spirits  greater  than  theirs.  Two 

133 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

of  them  carried  knapsacks  like  my  own  for 
I  cannot  tell  what  purpose.  Utterly  empty 
seemed  these  greenish  pouches,  flapping 
loosely  on  their  backs  in  every  wandering  bit 
of  breeze.  The  third  carried  a  little  leathern 
satchel,  doubtless  similarly  laden.  Goethe 
somewhere  observes  how  little  is  necessary 
for  such  a  journey :  my  clerks' were  apparently 
bent  on  proving  that  even  that  little  could  be 
spared. 

Upon  learning  that  I  was  an  American  they 
fell  to  questioning  me  with  regard  to  the  cost 
of  living.  What,  for  instance,  did  I  pay  for 
clothes  in  my  country?  When  I  told  them 
they  promptly  informed  me  that  the  best  tail- 
ors in  Berlin  could  make  the  same  clothes  for 
less  than  half.  And  so  with  other  things :  they 
would  scarcely  allow  me  to  make  a  reply,  so 
eager  were  they  to  show  me  how  extravagant 
we  were.  Yet  they  seemed  anxious  to  have 
me  guess  what  fortunes  might  await  such 
as  themselves  in  the  Western  Hemisphere. 

134 


Goslar  the  Glorious 

It  was  difficult  to  say,  I  told  them,  but  that, 
at  all  events,  there  were  no  Hartz  tours  in 
America.  Then  they  grew  boastful :  — 

"We  have  walked  thirty  kilometers  to- 
day," said  one  of  them,  "  and  to-morrow  we 
shall  be  in  Riibeland."  It  was  "schon" 
where  they  had  been  and  "  schon  "  it  would 
be  where  they  were  going.  They  had  but  one 
word  to  describe  all  things,  and  that  word 
was  schon.  Again  and  again,  however,  they 
reverted  to  the  cost  of  living  in  America. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 
CHAPTER  x 

THE   THRONE  OF  BARBAROSSA 

Dorten  setz*  ich  still  micb  nieder 
Und  gtdenke  alter  Z«V, 
Alter  bluhender  Geschlecbter^ 
Und  venunkner  Herrlichkeit. 

HEINE. 

UPON  the  square  of  the  marketplace 
debouch  a  number  of  streets  and 
lanes,  some  straight  and  some  crooked,  some 
modern  and  some  of  an  older  day.  Into  one 
of  these  narrow  thoroughfares  I  strolled  away 
from  the  Kaiserworth,  and  I  might  have  been 
wearing  the  seven-league  boots,  so  swiftly 
did  I  transfer  myself  from  the  square  and 
its  traffic  into  a  little  silent  quadrangle  upon 
which  lay  the  peace  of  centuries.  The  toy- 
like  gabled  houses  of  mediaeval  Germany, 
with  their  steep  roofs,  sharp-ridged  and 
pierced  by  many  dormer  windows,  seemed 

136 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

to  be  asleep  in  the  half-light,  like  the  fabled 
troops  of  Barbarossa  in  the  heart  of  Kyff- 
hauser.  They  seemed  to  be  awaiting  a  day 
when  the  guilds  will  once  more  be  bustling 
and  active,  and  the  life  of  the  royal  city 
transformed  by  some  Hartz-loving  Kaiser 
who  will  again  choose  for  his  seat  the  Kaiser- 
haus  at  Goslar.  Legend  has  it  that  at  a  cer- 
tain magical  moment  Barbarossa's  troopers 
will  receive  a  word  of  command  and  sally 
forth  with  their  leader  at  their  head  to  save 
the  German  Empire.  Perhaps  that  is  what 
Goslar  is  awaiting.  I  walked  through  more 
than  one  such  spot,  in  places  washed  by  the 
sluggish  and  shallow  Gose,  a  tiny  super- 
annuated streamlet,  with  much  history  and 
little  water,  to  which  the  city  owes  its  name. 
For  in  the  language  of  the  Franks  who  estab- 
lished it,  Gose-lar  means  the  place  on  the 
Gose. 

Exactly  when  Goslar  was  founded  is  un- 
certain, but  the  first  historical  mention  of 

137 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

it  occurs  in  979,  in  a  Chronicle  of  Otto  IPs 
time.  For  two  centuries  after  that  date  Gos- 
lar  was  the  chosen  seat  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Emperors.  After  their  wars  and  pilgrimages 
they  loved  to  return  to  their  peaceful  moun- 
tain home  in  the  Kaiserhaus  at  Goslar.  Then 
the  city  blossomed  and  prospered  so  that  even 
to  this  day  it  carries  something  royal  in  its 
air.  An  ancient  inscription  in  the  Rathaus 

reads  :  — 

O  Goslar,  du  bist  togeda 
de  hilge  romeske  rike 
suder  middel  und  wae 
nicht  macsta  dar  van 


That  was  the  city's  motto  —  to  regard  itself 
as  loyally,  and  freely,  though  irrevocably, 
pledged  to  the  Holy  Roman  Empire. 

Henry  the  Fowler,  perhaps,  first  cast  a 
glamour  upon  the  Hartz,  because  he  was 
quietly  snaring  finches  here  when  the  princes 
notified  him  that  he  had  been  elected  Em- 
peror. "Here"  means  the  Hartz  as  a  whole, 

138 


A  LITTLE   BACKWATER  AT  GOSLAR 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

for  like  the  seven  cities  of  Homer,  many  a 
spot  to-day  claims  to  have  been  Emperor 
Henry's  fowling  ground.  Henry  II,  his  suc- 
cessor, began  the  palace  at  Goslar  and  took  a 
great  delight  in  the  little  city  that  lies  nestling 
at  the  foot  of  the  Rammelsberg.  The  Ram- 
melsberg  is  in  all  likelihood  the  only  beget- 
ter of  Goslar.  For  centuries  that  mountain 
has  been  steadily  yielding  silver,  lead,  zinc, 
and  even  some  gold.  Folk-lore  relates  that 
the  horse  of  a  knight  named  Rame  first  un- 
covered the  silver  ore  with  its  hoof  a  thou- 
sand years  ago.  But  Jacob  Grimm,  who  could 
compose  bewitching  folk  tales,  could  also 
decompose  them ;  he  has  proven  scientifi- 
cally that  Rame's  horse  is  but  a  thin  dis- 
guise of  Odin's  silver-hoofed  steed.  What 
with  its  wealth  on  the  one  hand  and  its 
noble  situation  on  the  other,  Goslar  seemed 
a  fitting  home  to  those  Prankish  Emperors, 
from  the  second  Henry  on ;  and  the  fourth 
of  that  name  even  honored  Goslar  so  far  as  to 

139 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

be  born  there.  When  its  glory  waned  a  shade, 
Lothair,  the  Saxon,  and  the  Hohenstaufen 
monarch  Frederick  I,  surnamed  Barbarossa, 
were  at  the  pains  of  restoring  it ;  for  the 
Reichstag  held  by  Redbeard  in  June,  1 154, 
at  the  palace  of  Goslar,  surpassed  all  others 
in  splendor  and  magnificence.  The  wars  of 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline  brought  havoc  to 
Goslar  as  to  many  another  city,  and  the  last 
mediaeval  Emperor  to  sit  enthroned  there 
was  of  the  victorious  Guelphs,  —  William 
of  Holland.  Since  that  date,  1253,  the  city 
was  become  as  a  widow,  she  that  was  great 
among  the  nations ;  for  over  six  centuries 
she  looked  in  vain  for  any  royal  favor,  until 
in  1875,  William  I,  grandsire  of  the  present 
Emperor,  visited  that  seat  of  ancient  glory 
and  again  a  Kaiser  sat  upon  a  throne  in  the 
palace  at  Goslar. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  the 
long  term  of  waiting  for  imperial  occupation 
wholly  annihilated  Goslar.  The  vital  little 

140 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

city  joined  the  Hansa  league  toward  the  end 
of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  and  early  in  the 
Fourteenth  became  a  free  city.  Thereafter 
began  a  period  of  building  and  growth  until 
it  was  the  boast  of  the  Hartz  that  Goslar  had 
forty  places  of  worship.  In  the  Fifteenth 
and  Sixteenth  Centuries  were  erected  the 
circumvallations,  the  Rathaus,  and  the  eight 
famous  guild  houses  of  which  to-day  the 
Kaiserworth  alone  remains.  Fire  and  pesti- 
lence and  the  Swedish  wars  left  their  bitter 
mementoes  to  Goslar  in  the  course  of  the 
years.  But  now,  under  Prussian  rule,  it  has 
seventeen  thousand  inhabitants,  a  snug  pros- 
perity, and  a  rich  heirloom  of  distinguished 
tradition. 

That  evening  the  family  of  Hoppe  came 
to  dine  with  me,  not  at  my  fortified  Hotel 
Zum  Achtermann,  but  in  a  more  modern 
hostelry,  across  the  way,  with  less  tobacco 
smoke  and  more  variety.  Thus  far  on  my 
pilgrimage  I  had  met  with  no  English  or 

141 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

American  tourists  saving  only  the  lady  in 
the  coach  to  Goslar.  But  at  the  Hanover, 
while  awaiting  my  guests,  I  beheld  two  eld- 
erly Englishwomen  dining  at  a  neighboring 
table.  One  of  them  was  giving  orders  in  per- 
fect German  with  the  cosmopolitan  air  of 
an  experienced  traveler.  But  in  their  con- 
versation, scraps  of  which  I  could  not  help 
overhearing,  there  figured  only  the  names 
of  one  English  family  and  of  one  or  two 
streets  in  Mayfair.  They  seemed  completely 
oblivious  of  their  surroundings  and  might 
have  been  in  their  own  dining-rooms.  Later, 
when  a  waiter,  in  lighting  a  patron's  cigar, 
accidentally  burned  a  bit  of  his  napkin,  one 
of  the  women,  was  sufficiently  interested  to 
lift  up  her  lorgnette,  glance  angrily  about 
the  room,  and  exclaim  with  a  peculiar  drawl- 
ing inflection,  — 

"What  is  that  na-a-sty  smell !  "  Then  she 
relapsed  into  Mayfair. 

The  Councillor  Hoppe  delivered  himself 
142 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

of  some  well-seasoned  reflections  on  the 
variety  of  life  as  we  proceeded  with  our 
dinner. 

"  Last  night,"  said  he,  "  we  were  in  a 
homely  place  reveling  in  simplicity ;  every 
stranger  approached  the  circle  and  became 
a  friend.  Here  on  the  other  hand  the  waiters 
are  numerous  and  dressed  cap-a-pie.  The 
master  is  not  an  inn-keeper,  but  a  scientist 
running  a  first-rate  hotel  on  scientific  prin- 
ciples. No  other  guest  would  think  of  speak- 
ing to  us.  We  all  think  the  simplicity  better 
and  we  all  have  this  kind  of  thing  as  often 
as  we  can  afford.  Strange  world,  not  so?'* 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Fraulein  Hoppe  im- 
perturbably.  "Last  night  at  Klausthal  was 
like  love  in  a  cottage  —  highly  romantic  and 
interesting,  for  a  while.  To-night  is  like  sub- 
sequent prosperity,  which  makes  the  cottage 
doubly  dear  —  in  retrospect." 

I  ventured  to  observe  that  Fraulein  was 
surprisingly  cynical  for  one  of  her  years. 

143 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  It  seems,  then,  that  in  America  also," 
she  answered  with  a  warm  flush,  "girls  are 
expected  to  know  nothing  and  see  less.  I 
thought  that  only  in  Germany  women  must 
pretend  to  be  fools  even  if  they  are  not." 

After  dinner  we  agreed  that  on  the  mor- 
row we  should  visit  the  shrines  together  prior 
to  my  departure  for  Harzburg.  I  escorted 
my  guests  part  of  the  way  to  their  hotel  in 
the  marketplace,  and  upon  my  return  alone 
the  gentle  breeze,  the  soft  rustle  of  the  shade 
trees  and  the  blinking  gas  lamps,  all  seemed 
to  be  the  elements  of  a  wonderful  peace  that 
brooded  darkling  over  the  ancient  town.  I 
felt  that  all  the  turbulence  I  had  brought  in 
my  heart  from  the  nervous  and  feverish  Occi- 
dent had  given  way  to  a  spirit  of  sweet  tran- 
quillity and  dignified  repose  in  this  old  im- 
perial city.  The  sense  of  security  common 
to  all  German  towns,  however  small  or  dark, 
was  in  itself  a  soothing  influence  to  the 
stranger.  I  seemed  to  breathe  in  happiness 

144 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

and  quietude  with  every  breath  of  my  nos- 
trils. 

Most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Goslar,  cer- 
tainly most  of  the  touristry,  seemed  to  be 
assembled  deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  Achter- 
mann  tower  drinking  beer.  Nowhere  else  is 
drinking  taken  so  seriously  as  in  Germany. 
With  the  Latin  peoples  conversation  is  the 
principal  object  of  the  long  sessions  in  cafes. 
But  in  a  German  beer  cellar,  such  as  that  at 
the  Achtermann,  you  see  beyond  any  doubt 
that  every  one  seems  to  be  possessed  by  an 
incomprehensible  desire  to  consume  as  much 
liquid  as  is  possible  in  the  short  span  of  a 
mortal  life.  Laughter  and  conversation  seem 
to  be  the  merest  accessories  to  the  main  busi- 
ness in  hand.  Here  and  there,  in  university 
cities,  you  may  still  behold  such  a  scene  as 
that  in  Auerbach's  cellar  at  Leipzig,  to  which 
Faust  and  Mephistopheles  are  introduced  by 
Goethe.  But  the  every-day  German  citizen 
is  not  romantic  in  his  potations.  Some  days 

H5 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

later,  when  I  made  my  way  to  Auerbach's 
at  Leipzig,  I  found  the  saddest  parody  on 
Goethe's  classic  scene.  No  glorious  catches 
such  as  — 

The  dear  old  Holy  Roman  Realm  — 

How  does  it  hold  together  ? 

resounded  there,  nor  were  there  any  roister- 
ing blades  like  Brander,  Frosch,  and  Siebel. 
The  scenes  from  "Faust"  were  indeed 
painted  on  wall  and  ceiling,  but  the  Leip- 
zig clerk  and  "counter-jumper,"  together 
with  his  lady,  were  in  possession  of  that  im- 
mortal tavern.  And  if  the  Devil  ever  comes 
there  to-day,  as  I  make  no  doubt  he  does,  it 
is  as  a  mean,  shabby  rascal  slinking  about 
among  the  tables  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs. 

The  next  morning  the  Hoppes  and  my- 
self set  out  to  see  the  sights  of  Goslar.  We 
looked  back  to  their  hotel,  the  Kaiserworth, 
to  get  a  view  in  the  morning  sunlight  of 
that  famous  guild  house.  In  their  niches, 

146 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

about  midway  between  ground  and  roof, 
stand  the  German  Emperors,  the  Henrys, 
Otto  I,  Konrad  II,  and  Lothair  III,  with 
sceptre  and  globe.  Heine's  description  of 
them  as  "smoky-black,  partly  gilded,  re- 
sembling baked  university  proctors,"  still 
holds  good  to-day.  We  walked  across  to  the 
Rathaus  and  were  admitted  to  its  little  civic 
museum — for  a  consideration.  The  relics 
of  Goslar's  long  and  brilliant  history  are 
numerous,  and  every  visitor,  no  doubt,  finds 
some  of  peculiar  interest  to  him.  Many  are 
impressed  with  the  massive  silver  cup  which 
some  Thirteenth-Century  German  Benve- 
nuto  Cellini  decorated  in  rich  Byzantine 
style :  the  guide  tells  you  exactly  how  many 
hundred  thousands,  offered  by  a  rich  Amer- 
ican, had  been  refused  by  the  municipality. 
Others  are  wont  to  linger  over  a  letter  written 
in  1529  by  the  hand  of  Dr.  Martin  Luther, 
full  of  spiritual  encouragement  to  Goslar  in 
the  cradle-days  of  the  Reformation.  "Keep 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

me  in  your  prayers"  are  his  last  words  to  the 
citizens  of  Goslar.  But  what  took  my  fancy 
was  an  instrument  called  the  Beisskatze,  or 
"  Bitecat." 

The  Beisskatze  is  in  a  sort  an  edition  of 
the  stocks.  It  is  a  box  about  double  the  width 
of  a  coffin  standing  upright,  divided  into 
two  compartments.  Whenever  two  women 
were  taken  in  the  act  of  scolding  and  re- 
viling each  other  in  the  open  street  or  in 
the  marketplace,  they  were  thrust  into  the 
Beisskatze,  separated,  yet  in  horrible  prox- 
imity. For  the  upper  part  of  the  Beisskatze, 
even  to  the  partition,  is  of  thick  wire  grill- 
work,  so  that  the  belligerents  could  still  see 
and  vilify  one  another,  if  they  chose.  But 
all  the  world  could  see  them  then,  for  the 
thing  was  put  in  the  square  before  the  Rat- 
haus.  One  such  exhibition,  it  seemed  to  me, 
of  a  pair  of  scolds  in  the  marketplace,  must 
have  been  more  efficacious  than  a  whole 
statute  book  of  prohibitive  legislation.  Gen- 

148 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

tie  Frau  Hoppe  threw  up  her  hands  in  dread 
at  the  imaginary  spectacle  of  two  women 
encased  in  that  cleverly  contrived  little 
prison.  Her  husband  smiled  and  remarked, 

"  Das  war  gar  nicht  dumm"  (That  was  by 
no  means  stupid.) 

Their  lively  daughter  made  as  though 
heaving  a  profound  sigh  and  murmured 
piteously  that  the  Golden  Age  was  past. 

We  strolled  towards  the  Domkapelle,  the 
ancient  chapel,  once  the  portal  of  Goslar's 
great  cathedral  that  stood  for  a  thousand 
years.  The  fame  of  that  Cathedral  survives 
in  many  a  legend  and  story,  but  aside  from 
this  chapel  not  a  stone  of  it  stands  to-day. 
In  1 820  the  municipality  sold  the  ruin  of  it 
for  5000  thalers.  Heine  relates  that  when 
he  inquired  for  the  Cathedral  as  well  as  for 
a  certain  imperial  chair,  in  1 824,  he  was  told 
that  the  one  had  been  razed  and  the  other 
sent  to  Berlin.  "We  live,"  remarks  Heine, 
"in  a  portentous  age,  —  thousand-year-old 

149 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Cathedrals  are  demolished  and  throne-chairs 
are  cast  upon  the  scrap-heap."  It  is  such 
sayings  as  this  that  make  Heine  unpopular 
with  royalty  even  to  this  day. 

In  the  brilliant,  vivid  days  of  the  Emper- 
ors, the  defunct  Cathedral  was  the  glory  and 
pride  of  Goslar.  The  old  verger  who  was 
showing  us  the  meagre  collection  of  relics  in 
the  Chapel  complained  in  bitter  tones  that 
were  the  Cathedral  now  standing,  he,  the 
verger,  would,  by  your  leave,  have  a  different 
tale  to  tell.  To  this  sentiment  we  could  not 
help  giving  our  unqualified  agreement. 

"As  it  is,"  he  continued, "  I  shall  tell  you, 
if  you  like,  of  the  bloody  fray  that  took  place 
in  this  Cathedral  nearly  nine  hundred  years 
ago." 

That  melancholy  verger  had  something  of 
the  poet  still  lingering  in  his  bosom,  though 
long  since  the  thoughts  of  trinkgeld  had  al- 
most completely  supplanted  all  else  that  may 
have  been  there.  The  monotonous  formula  in 

150 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

which  he  described,  for  revenue  only,  the  few 
dusty  relics,  gave  way  to  a  more  natural  and 
less  wearisome  kind  of  speech  as  he  began  the 
story  of  the  affray. 

"  In  the  year  1 06  3,"  he  began, "  Henry  IV, 
while  still  very  young,  celebrated  Christmas 
day  at  Goslar.  It  happened  that  the  servants 
of  the  Bishop  of  Hildesheim  and  those  of  the 
Abbot  of  Fulda  came  to  blows.  The  reason 
was  that  the  Abbot  had  been  accustomed  at 
all  public  functions  to  sit  beside  His  Grace, 
the  Archbishop  of  Mainz.  But  as  the  Bishop 
of  Hildesheim  maintained  that  in  his  see  none 
but  the  Archbishop  might  precede  him,  those 
who  were  placing  the  chairs  fell  to  scuffling 
and  violence.  The  King  was  of  tender  years, 
and  the  Bishop  was  rich,  therefore  unbridled. 
The  Duke  Otto  of  Bavaria,  who  chanced  to 
be  present,  held  with  the  Abbot  and  tempo- 
rarily quelled  the  outbreak." 

As  the  verger  was  relating  the  story  we 
could  not  help  gazing  from  him  to  a  re- 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

markable  wooden  carving  of  Christ,  the  size 
of  life,  nailed  to  a  cross.  Human  hair  clothes 
the  head,  which  is  crowned  with  real  thorns. 
The  face,  besmeared  with  blood,  is  of  work- 
manship so  marvelous,  that  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  chapel  you  seem  actually  to  behold 
the  pangs  and  agony  of  human  suffering  upon 
the  rack  of  the  cross.  Heine  maintains  that 
the  figure  presents  the  death  agonies  of  a 
man,  but  not  of  a  divinity.  That  may  indeed 
be  true,  but  the  wonderful  presentment  of 
silent  anguish  seemed  unspeakably  terrible  as 
the  verger  continued  the  tale  of  the  prelates* 
insolence  and  pride :  — 

"At  the  celebration  of  the  next  Whitsun- 
tide a  repetition  of  the  chair  business  broke 
out  into  a  horrid  scene  of  bloodshed  that 
made  a  treat  for  the  Devil.  This  second  en- 
counter was  no  longer  a  spontaneous  brawl, 
but  a  premeditated  battle  planned  and  pre- 
pared. Hecelon,  Bishop  of  Hildesheim,  had 
hidden  Count  Eckbert  with  a  number  of 

152 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

men  behind  the  altar,  and  at  vespers,  when 
the  servitors  again  had  words  with  respect 
to  the  chairs,  Eckbert  and  his  crew  rushed 
forth  and  pummeled  the  Abbot's  men  with 
fists  and  clubs,  driving  them  through  this 
very  chapel,  where  we  now  stand,  into  the 
street.  The  Fulda  men  raised  an  alarm, 
and  in  a  few  moments  a  throng  of  the 
Abbot's  retainers  burst  into  the  Cathedral 
and  fell  upon  the  Hildesheimer.  Battle 
shouts,  the  clash  of  arms,  and  the  cries  of 
the  wounded  mingled  into  a  fearful  and  un- 
holy din,  such  as  ought  never  to  have  filled 
a  house  of  the  Lord.  The  Cathedral  was 
soon  awash  with  blood  scandalously  shed  in 
an  unrighteous  manner.  All  this  time  the 
Bishop  stood  upon  an  eminence  urging  on 
his  men  and  promising  them  absolution  if 
only  they  fought  valiantly.  The  young  King, 
a  mere  boy,  lifted  up  his  voice  and  conjured 
the  rioters,  by  his  majesty,  to  desist.  His  en- 
treaties, however,  fell  upon  deaf  ears ;  he 

153 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

barely  escaped  from  the  tumult  with  his  life 
and  ran  into  his  own  palace.  The  Hilde- 
sheimer  won,  for  they  had  been  in  readiness. 
The  Abbot's  men  rallied  their  forces  and 
attempted  another  attack  outside  the  door, 
when  the '  service '  was  over,  but  night  came 
on  and  put  an  end  to  the  fight. 

"  From  under  the  doors  of  the  Cathedral 
the  blood  flowed  like  water,  and  many  a 
knight  lay  dead  within.  Buko,  Bishop  of 
Halberstadt,  was  among  the  slain,  and  to-day 
he  lies  buried  at  Ilsenburg.  The  Count  of 
Sommerschenburg  also  lay  upon  the  floor 
of  the  Cathedral,  as  well  as  a  number  of 
nobles  from  Swabia,  Saxony,  and  Bavaria. 
Through  the  hymn, '  Hunc  diem  gloriosum 
fecisti,'  broke  in  the  coarse  tones  of  the  Devil 
with,  '  This  day  of  wrath  I  brought  about.' 
He  even  showed  himself,  all  fiery  red,  and 
put  out  his  flaming  tongue  in  derision  over 
the  havoc  he  had  created.  In  the  Seven- 
teenth Century  the  hole  through  which  the 

'54 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

Prince  of  Darkness  broke  into  the  Cathe- 
dral was  still  exhibited,  and  no  mason  could 
ever  repair  it.  No  one  was  ever  punished 
for  that  awful  misdeed,  for  Count  Eckbert 
was  a  cousin  of  the  King's,  and  the  Abbot 
of  Fulda  was  soothed  by  a  great  sum  of 
gold." 

The  verger  also  was  soothed,  and  we  went 
forth  from  the  dim  old  chapel  into  the  sunlit 
space  of  the  street  of  the  Bell-founders,  where 
happily  no  Fulda  men-at-arms  lay  in  wait 
for  us.  Only  a  few  very  unwarlike  tourists 
were  straggling  along  toward  the  Kaiser- 
bleek,  which  is  crowned  by  the  stately  edi- 
fice of  the  Kaiserhaus.  This  palace,  in  the 
words  of  the  guide-book,  "  is  not  only  his- 
torically but  also  art-historically  the  most 
important  secular  edifice  in  all  Germany." 
Certain  it  is,  that  no  other  royal  palace  dat- 
ing back  to  the  Eleventh  Century  remains 
in  Germany  to-day. 

At  the  first  glance  you  are  struck  by  the 
155 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

unexpectedly  modest  proportions  of  this 
castle  as  well  as  by  its  absolute  simplicity. 
It  seems  strange  that  Holy  Roman  Em- 
perors and  heroes  like  Barbarossa  found  suf- 
ficient for  their  needs  a  building  that  not  only 
kings  but  many  a  plain  millionaire  to-day 
would  not  improbably  deem  to  be  cramped 
quarters.  Two  great  bronze  statues,  present- 
ing the  likenesses  on  horseback  of  the  an- 
cient Emperor  Barbarossa  and  the  modern 
Emperor  William  I,  gaze  from  high  ped- 
estals upon  the  terrace,  and  behind  them 
two  stone  lions  facing  each  other  guard  the 
outer  stairways.  The  terrace  itself  is  of  a 
dark  northern  austerity  with  scarcely  a  touch 
of  the  profusion  and  brilliancy  of  color  that 
paint  the  grounds  of  French  chateaux. 

Heine  does  not  speak  of  the  Kaiserhaus, 
for  in  his  day  it  was  little  more  than  a 
ruin.  If  by  chance  he  cast  a  glance  toward 
the  Kaiserbleek,  after  leaving  the  chapel, 
he  beheld  the  dark  spectral  remains  of  a 

156 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

building,  the  skeleton  of  what  was  once  a 
palace,  unworthy  a  second  glance.  History 
records  the  many  vicissitudes  of  the  Kaiser- 
haus.  At  so  remote  a  date  as  1289  it  was 
already  in  a  state  of  dilapidation.  The  local 
government  patched  it  up  to  serve  as  a  court- 
house, and  later  as  a  hall  of  assembly.  In  the 
Sixteenth  Century  it  became  a  communal 
granary,  and  in  the  seventeenth  a  Jesuit  col- 
lege. Later,  the  structure  developed  into  a 
theatre,  and  finally  became  again  a  granary. 
It  was  not  until  after  the  establishment  of 
the  Empire  in  the  nineteenth  century,  that 
450,000  marks  were  appropriated  to  restore 
that  monument  of  one-time  glory.  To-day 
it  appears  much  as  it  did  in  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  centuries  —  the  palace  proper,  a 
house-chapel  and  a  covered  passageway  con- 
necting them.  So  closely  did  the  architects 
follow  the  ancient  style  that  should  Barba- 
rossa emerge  from  his  long  sleep  in  the  moun- 
tain he  would  straightway  recognize  his  old 

157 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

habitation  in  the  midst  of  all  the  glaring 
novelty  surrounding  it. 

The  bewilderment  for  Barbarossa  would 
begin  within  doors.  The  old  sandstone 
throne  (the  very  same  that  had  been  taken 
to  Berlin  and,  in  the  words  of  Heine,  thrown 
upon  the  scrap-heap)  still  stands  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  hall  upon  a  dais,  as  of  yore.  Six 
massive  wooden  pillars  support  the  beams 
of  the  ceiling.  But  the  pictures  painted  upon 
the  walls,  where  his  own  counterfeit  present- 
ment figures,  would  strike  him  at  once  as  a 
strange  innovation.  A  young  woman,  daugh- 
ter of  the  curator,  would  wait  until  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  tourists  was  collected  to 
form  a  group  of  proper  size,  and  through 
the  bare,  unfurnished  rooms  she  would  lead 
the  Emperor  and  the  others,  descanting  glibly 
and  easily  upon  the  pictures,  the  work  of  a 
painter  named  Wislicenus. 

"  Henry  II  being  crowned  by  Pope  Ben- 
edict VIII,'*  would  rattle  on  the  castellan, 
.'58 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

"Henry  III  leads  Pope  Gregory  IV  cap- 
tive across  the  Alps ;  Henry  IV  barefoot 
before  the  Pope's  door  at  Canossa;  Henry 
V  struck  by  lightning;  Barbarossa  kneeling 
before  Henry  the  Lion,"  and  many  more 
subjects  similarly  depicted.  The  most  of 
these  Barbarossa  would  decipher  and  com- 
prehend. But  larger  than  all  the  rest  would 
loom  forth  a  fresco  depicting  allegorically 
the  creation  of  a  new  German  Empire. 

"  William  I  and  his  Paladins,"  in  the 
phrases  of  the  castellan,  "  at  the  Gate  of 
Triumph  received  by  the  damsels  Alsace 
and  Lorraine;  Bismarck  standing  at  the 
foundation  of  the  new  edifice  of  the  Em- 
pire." 

Those  words  would  fall  strangely  upon 
the  ear  of  Barbarossa.  A  new  German  Em- 
pire, "  neither  holy  nor  Roman,"  would 
seem  odd  to  him  who  received  his  crown 
from  Papal  hands  and,  later,  fell  fighting 
for  the  Cross  against  the  Saracens. 

'59 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

The  house-chapel  named  after  St.  Ulrich 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  structures  of 
its  kind  now  extant.  It  is  built  in  the  shape 
of  a  Greek  cross  and  is  what  is  called  a 
"  double  chapel."  While  the  Emperor  and 
his  family  were  hearing  service  in  the  pal- 
ace story,  the  servants  of  the  palace  par- 
took in  the  self-same  mass  below  stairs.  The 
upper  story  is  a  kind  of  gallery  to  the  lower, 
but  in  this  instance  the  gallery  is  more  im- 
portant than  the  rest  of  the  edifice. 

At  the  bottom  of  this  tall  chapel  lies  en- 
tombed the  brave  heart  of  Henry  III,  sur- 
named  the  Black.  For  many  centuries  it 
reposed  in  the  now  vanished  cathedral; 
thence  it  was  taken  to  the  Guelph  museum 
at  Hanover ;  now  at  last  it  has  found  per- 
manent rest  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  Ulrich  at 
Goslar.  Permanent,  at  all  events,  we  be- 
lieve it  to  be.  But  those  who  buried  it  in 
the  Cathedral  centuries  ago,  doubtless  felt 
no  less  securely  that  this  sepulture  was  for 

1 60 


THE    KAISKRHAUS   AT  GOSLAR 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

eternity;  that  nevermore  should  be  dis- 
turbed the  dust  of  him  who  built  this  glo- 
rious fane.  But  time  outlives  the  will  of 
Kings  and  even  Cathedrals.  And  the  pass- 
ing of  the  world's  glory,  though  old  as  the 
universe,  comes  hor  e  anew  to  every  human 
soul  of  us. 

It  was  nearly  noon,  and  I,  for  one,  was 
sated  with  sightseeing ;  for  that  is  an  i~t  i 
have  never  quite  mastered.  The  tourists 
who  can  go  on  filtering  through  mase^ms 
and  galleries  day  in,  day  out,  without  a 
moment's  pause  for  refection,  have  ever 
been  my  admiration.  I  proposed  to  the 
Hoppes  that  we  abandon  further  marvel- 
seeking  for  the  time  being.  But  the  Coun- 
cillor was  bent  upon  showing  his  wife  and 
daughter  a  certain  "wonde- -clock"  famous 
throughout  the  land.  At  precisely  twelv_, 
when  the  clock  strikes  the  hour,  begins  the 
exhibition  given  by  this  contrivance,  which 
is  as  nearly  a  thing  of  life,  so  report  goes, 

161 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

as  machinery  can  be.  It  has  come  almost 
to  the  dignity  of  a  shrine.  Scores  of  guide- 
posts,  arrows,  and  wooden  hands  scattered 
up  and  down  Goslar  point  the  way  thither, 
and  the  feet  of  the  tourists  have  worn  a  rut 
in  the  pavements  that  lead  to  it.  The  pre- 
sent owner,  a  son  of  the  inventor,  has  to 
such  a  degree  prospered  by  the  wide-spread 
interest  in  his  dead  father's  ingenuity  that 
he  has  built  a  new  and  spacious  house,  while 
the  clock  continues  to  bring  him  in  a  com- 
fortable thing  per  annum. 

To  the  new  house  we  accordingly  re- 
paired and  took  our  seats  in  front  of  the 
family  breadwinner,  which  is  the  size  of  a 
small  organ.  Five  minutes  before  twelve 
a  young  girl  of  dark  and  striking  beauty, 
daughter  of  the  present  proprietor,  took  her 
place  before  the  clock  and  briefly  told  the 
story  of  the  family  masterpiece,  while  her 
father  was  idly  lolling  in  a  chair  among  the 
audience.  Her  grandfather,  she  said,  had 

162 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

originally  made  this  time-piece  for  the 
King  of  Hanover.  Later,  however,  it  re- 
turned to  the  maker's  possession.  She  enu- 
merated in  detail  the  performances  of  the 
wonder,  —  the  beating  out  of  the  hour  by 
angels,  the  scene  of  the  crucifixion,  the 
playing  of  a  hymn,  and  so  on.  As  soon  as 
she  had  done,  the  clock  began  to  strike,  the 
angels  began  with  tiny  hammers  to  beat  the 
hour ;  the  crucifixion  was  enacted  by  the 
tremulous  mechanism;  a  concealed  music 
box  of  feeble  pitch  tinkled  out  a  hymn,  and 
the  twelve  Apostles,  with  small  jerky  move- 
ments, came  forth  by  twos  from  a  little 
door,  made  obeisance  before  the  Saviour, 
and  then  returned  to  their  places.  Not 
without  interest  though  the  thing  was  as  a 
product  of  human  skill,  it  seemed  some- 
what undignified  for  a  public  entertainment. 
And  yet  both  the  Councillor  and  his  lady 
seemed  to  be  much  impressed  with  it  and 
again  and  again  expressed  their  amazement 

163 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

at  this  feat  of  mechanical  genius.  Their 
daughter,  however,  seemed  morose  and  list- 
less. 

"  Child's  play !  "  was  all  she  said. 

Near  by  is  another  wonder-clock  —  made 
wholly  of  straw.  The  "weights  "  by  which 
the  clock  is  made  to  work  being  of  necessity 
light,  this  clock  is  set  going,  a  few  seconds 
at  a  time,  whenever  sightseers  pay  the  price 
of  admission.  The  inventor  is  a  slight,  sallow 
man,  who  seems  to  have  spent  all  his  force 
in  the  making  of  this  toy.  No  rich  and  spa- 
cious house  is  his,  but  a  modest  tenement  with 
prattling  children  about.  With  dreamy,  wist- 
ful eyes  the  little  man  keeps  gazing  at  the 
window  for  patrons,  and,  whenever  they 
arrive,  a  faint  flush  mounts  his  cheek  as  he 
modestly  explains  his  work  and  pockets  the 
small  fee.  We  all  wished  that  he  were  the 
possessor  of  the  more  lucrative  trick-clock 
of  his  richer  rival,  who,  we  learned,  looks 
upon  him  but  sourly.  I  regretted  that  Heine 

164 


The  Throne  of  Barbarossa 

had  no  opportunity  of  seeing  those  toy-like 
inventions,  for  had  they  existed  then,  he 
would  have  hit  them  off  with  some  unfor- 
gettable phrases. 

I  vowed  I  should  look  upon  no  more  trifles 
that  day.  It  was  not  the  like  of  these  that  I 
wished  to  bear  away  in  my  memories  of 
Goslar.  What  I  desired  to  clasp  to  my  brain, 
not  without  reverence,  was  the  genuine  at- 
mosphere of  grandeur  that  survives  in  that 
little  city  from  a  time  when  the  most  cele- 
brated of  Imperial  hands  built  it  and  the 
bravest  of  Imperial  hearts  loved  it  as  a  sweet 
and  dignified  retreat  after  strife  and  conquest. 
The  greatest  and  the  least  of  us  alike  yearn 
for  some  nook  that  invites  our  soul  and  senses 
to  repose,  some  quiet  spot  that  holds  our  gods 
and  our  love.  Goslar,  folded  in  the  bosom 
of  the  hills,  was  such  a  spot  for  certain  noble 
rulers  of  the  world,  and  to  this  day  it  main- 
tains not  a  little  of  its  ancient  character. 
Majesty  qualifies  the  impression  you  get  of 

165 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

it  from  without ;  charm  and  tranquillity  per- 
vade its  precincts  within.  To  see  Goslar,  the 
Hoppes  agreed  with  me,  is  to  remember  it 
forevermore. 


Forest  Sanctuary 


CHAPTER   XI 

FOREST   SANCTUARY 

Wit  stbn'  ick  mich,  Natur,  nach  dir, 
Dich  treu  und  lieb  zu  fuhlen  ! 

GOETHE. 

THE  time  had  now  come  for  me  to  part 
with  the  friendly  family  whose  com- 
pany added  so  much  to  my  pleasure.  A  near 
kinswoman  of  Frau  Hoppe's  was  to  arrive  at 
Goslar  that  afternoon  and  for  her  they  had 
promised  to  wait.  For  me,  on  the  other 
hand,  in  order  to  continue  in  the  track  of 
Heine,  it  was  necessary  to  go  by  way  of 
Harzburg.  Heine  unfortunately  does  not 
precisely  state  what  route  he  followed  from 
Goslar  to  the  Brocken.  But  as  he  mentions 
passing  near  Harzburg,  I  decided  to  go  by 
way  of  that  city,  since  it  was  my  fancy  to 
cover  as  nearly  the  same  ground  as  I  could. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Harzburg,  moreover,  is  famed  as  a  German 
spa  and  I  had  never  before  seen  one ;  besides, 
many  a  pleasing  legend  clings  to  that  locality. 
The  Hoppes  had  it  in  mind  to  sleep  another 
night  in  Goslar  and  on  the  morrow  to  as- 
cend the  Brocken.  There  we  were  all  to  meet 
again. 

"  We  shall  have  a  Walpurgis  night  all  our 
own,"  announced  the  Councillor  cheerily. 

"  You  count  without  your  host,"  re- 
marked Fraulein  Hoppe  with  a  touch  of 
cruelty ;  "  the  Herr  may  feel  like  sleeping 
forty-eight  hours  or  so  at  Harzburg  and  we 
may  never  see  him  again." 

"  Paula  !  "  murmured  gentle  Frau  Hoppe 
reprovingly. 

"  The  host  at  Walpurgis  night  on  the 
Brocken  is  a  Herr  who  needs  no  sleep,"  put 
in  the  Councillor.  For  all  that  Fraulein 
gave  me  a  warm  handclasp  at  parting,  Herr 
Hoppe  clapped  me  on  the  back,  and  his 
kindly  Frau  gave  me  motherly  advice  on  the 

168 


Forest  Sanctuary 

avoidance  of  chills.  I  found  no  ready  words 
to  answer  the  young  lady's  sarcasm,  for  my 
heart  was  somewhat  cast  down  at  leaving 
my  friends. 

Our  ways  parted.  Near  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  I  paused  at  an  unpretentious  tavern 
for  a  bit  of  luncheon.  The  landlord  took 
me  through  the  house  into  a  smiling  garden, 
and  I  found  myself  at  the  rear  of  the  bar- 
racks. A  number  of  soldiers,  principally 
petty  officers,  with  their  sweethearts,  sat 
about  the  tables,  while  through  the  open 
windows  you  could  see  the  rank  and  file  at 
meat  within  the  barracks.  If  the  fare  set 
before  me  in  that  garden  is  the  regular  mess 
of  the  soldiers,  commend  me  to  the  i65th 
of  Foot  stationed  at  Goslar. 

I  moved  through  the  quiet  streets  past 
the  Zwinger,  a  tower  with  walls  sixteen  feet 
thick,  and  out  through  das  Ereite  T0r,  the 
broad  gate  that  was  wont  to  admit  the  trains 
of  the  Emperors,  returning  from  wars  and 

169 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

expeditions  abroad.  At  one  stride  I  was  in 
the  wheatfields,  where  the  scythe  was  ringing 
and  the  sickle  gleaming.  The  stout  women 
toiling  would  glance  up  for  a  second  at  the 
stranger  with  a  pack  on  his  back  and  then 
fall  again  to  their  tasks.  What  the  men 
could  have  been  about  I  cannot  say ;  almost 
all  these  field  laborers  were  women  and 
boys  and  girls.  Through  the  fields  runs  a 
path  into  the  forest,  and  in  a  few  moments  I 
was  enveloped  by  the  silent  leafy  wilderness 
hushed  under  the  midday  calm. 

The  map  I  had  bought  at  Osterode  now 
came  to  my  aid,  and  without  doubt  or  hesi- 
tation I  set  forth  on  the  way  to  Harzburg. 
Of  drift-ways  and  bridle-paths,  common  to 
wooded  country,  there  are,  to  be  sure,  not 
many  in  the  Hartz.  Yet  it  is  saying  much 
for  a  map  that  it  laid  me  under  the  necessity 
of  asking  scarce  a  single  question  during  all 
my  tour.  Even  where  there  was  a  network 
of  cross-paths  the  map,  on  the  one  hand,  the 

170 


Forest  Sanctuary 


Hartz  Club's  guide-posts,  on  the  other,  made 
everything  plain.  Briskly  I  walked  up  a  de- 
clivitous path  and  very  soon  I  stood  upon  a 
hill  high  and  far  above  Goslar.  Again  I  was 
struck  by  the  mediaeval  aspect  of  the  city 
below  with  its  domes  and  spires  —  that 
gleaming  city  of  Kings.  Lane  and  meadow, 
grove  and  stream  in  and  about  the  picturesque 
city  below,  all  fell  into  a  kind  of  delightful 
harmony,  simple  and  pleasing,  like  sweet 
music.  I  could  have  lingered  the  balance  of 
the  day  gazing  into  that  radiant  valley.  But 
a  thin  drizzle  of  rain,  commencing  suddenly, 
urged  me  farther  into  the  depths  of  the  for- 
est, where  the  foliage  sheltered  the  path. 

With  every  step  I  mounted  higher  and 
higher  among  the  mighty  trees  and  the  path 
kept  growing  ever  steeper.  Never  before 
had  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  so  impressed 
with  the  delicious  wonder  of  dark  and  soli- 
tary woods.  The  song  of  the  sirens,  it  seemed 
to  me,  was  present  in  this  northern  forest  as 

171 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

much  as  in  the  JEssan  isle.  A  low  murmur- 
ous music  seemed  to  breathe  through  all 
space  and  to  bewitch  my  ears  like  enchant- 
ment. Generous,  beautiful  thoughts  filled 
my  heart  and  soul ;  I  began  to  wish  for  some 
beloved  companion  to  share  the  richness 
and  the  beauty.  In  such  a  place  the  love  of 
man  and  woman  must  have  a  thousandfold 
more  meaning  than  it  has  in  the  crowded 
cities.  There  the  heart  is  constantly  seduced 
by  a  multiplicity  of  distractions. 

My  path  emerged  from  the  forest  for  a 
space,  and  it  seemed  a  mere  tiny  ribbon  of 
uneven  ground  on  the  edge  of  a  yawning 
chasm,  steep  and  precipitous,  many  hundred 
feet  deep.  The  wind  that  was  music  in  the 
forest  was  blowing  a  gale  through  this  sav- 
age bit  of  gorge  and  the  rain  smote  my  face 
sharply.  Harsh  and  stony  was  the  way,  and 
it  seemed  a  cruel  hardship  after  the  ease 
and  beauty  of  a  little  while  ago.  But  before 
long  you  grow  accustomed  to  a  piece  of 

172 


Forest  Sanctuary 

rough  road,  even  as  in  life  you  grow  inured 
to  treading  a  difficult  path,  until  it  seems 
not  unnatural.  Soon,  however,  I  rounded 
the  naked  curve  of  the  cone-shaped  hill 
about  which  I  was  winding  and  again  I  en- 
tered the  forest. 

A  low  hut  made  of  boughs  stood  by  the 
wayside,  a  shelter  for  travelers  fatigued  by 
the  climb  or  caught  in  a  storm.  Over  the 
doorway  was  rudely  carved  the  legend, — 

"  I  guard  the  folk  'gainst  weather  and  wind ; 
Do  you  guard  me  from  usage  unkind." 

A  young  man  and  two  young  women,  his 
sister,  apparently,  and  the  sister's  friend,  who 
had  sought  protection  from  the  rain,  were 
chatting  pleasantly  as  I  entered.  They  nodded 
to  the  stranger,  surveyed  him  unobtrusively 
as  he  sank  down  on  the  bench,  and  contin- 
ued their  conversation.  That  is,  the  brother 
and  the  sister  did  so.  The  other  girl,  how- 
ever, belonged  to  the  species  of  woman  that 
must  needs  conquer  all  in  her  path.  She 

173 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

grew  every  moment  more  vivacious,  laughed 
often  and  exquisitely,  showing  pearly  teeth, 
and  began  to  interlard  her  conversation  with 
French  and  English  phrases,  casting  furtive 
glances  at  the  unknown  wayfarer.  All  the 
arts  and  charms  of  this,  the  period  of  her 
blossoming,  she  paraded  not  because  the 
stranger  mattered  in  the  least,  but  because 
to  do  so  was  her  irresistible  instinct.  The 
traveler,  however,  felt  both  shy  and  fatigued, 
and  had  not  even  the  spirit  to  ask  a  question. 
He  slung  his  knapsack  over  his  shoulder  again 
and  with  another  nod  left  the  hut. 

The  rain  ceased  and  the  sun  was  again 
triumphant  in  its  endless  warfare  with  the 
clouds.  The  succession  of  the  sun's  defeats 
and  victories  is  more  swift  and  frequent  in 
this  region  than  in  the  lowlands.  I  paced  on 
with  a  cheerful  heart,  often  looking  up  to 
see  the  sky  showing  through  the  openings 
in  the  pines,  or  the  sun  lightly  dappling  the 
trunks.  The  road  was  now  straight  and 

174 


Forest  Sanctuary 

smooth,  though  not  too  much  worn  to  give 
that  spring  to  the  foot  that  quickens  the 
pulses  of  the  traveler.  The  black  thrushes 
in  the  treetops  broke  forth  into  a  wonderful 
chorus  of  full-throated  song,  but  otherwise 
perfect  stillness  reigned  all  about.  That  great 
pine  forest  appeared  to  envelop  me  as  a 
mother  takes  an  infant  in  her  embrace,  com- 
forting as  well  as  protecting.  It  seemed  al- 
most miraculous  that  one  who  had  so  long 
been  tossed  about  the  world  by  fate  and 
chance,  like  a  cork  on  troubled  waters, 
should  suddenly  find  himself  tasting  fully 
the  sweet  and  wholesome  peace  for  which 
we  cannot  help  yearning.  A  young  deer,  a 
hundred  yards  in  front  of  me,  was  standing 
by  the  wayside,  thoughtfully  contemplating 
the  beaten  track  of  mankind.  I  was  almost 
upon  that  lithe  philosopher  before  he  turned 
tail  and  scampered  off  among  the  trees,  not 
with  the  speed  of  fear,  but  simply  in  re- 
sponse to  his  inborn  impulse.  That  deer 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

must  have  felt  that  there  was  nothing  in 
my  heart  but  brotherly  affection  for  the  like 
of  him.  If  ever  Mr.  Rousseau  could  have 
made  me  return  to  nature,  now  was  his 
time. 

A  step  farther  on  two  young  men  with 
the  feathery  intimations  of  moustaches  on 
their  upper  lips  came  swiftly  toward  me 
from  behind  a  bend  and  we  greeted  one 
another  with  the  freemasonry  of  the  road  ; 
and  though  they  seemed  university  youths 
and  gently  reared,  they  too  bore  light  and 
dangling  knapsacks  that  could  not  have  held 
a  change  of  linen.  They  told  me  they  had 
left  Harzburg  that  morning,  and  I  gravely 
asked  them  whether  it  had  rained  there, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  might  ask  whether 
rain  had  been  falling  in  Central  Russia. 
Near  though  Harzburg  was  in  reality,  it 
was  still  a  matter  of  more  than  three  hours' 
journey  to  the  pedestrian  and  therefore  a 
remote  section  of  the  globe.  That  city,  of 

176 


Forest  Sanctuary 


which  I  knew  nothing,  seemed  suddenly 
to  possess  the  lure  of  all  things  impossi- 
ble of  immediate  attainment,  and  I  found 
myself  wishing  I  were  already  in  Harz- 
burg. 

We  parted,  the  youths  and  I,  with  mu- 
tual good  wishes,  and  I  began  to  descend 
the  winding  path,  now  on  the  edge  of  a 
piece  of  bare,  craggy  hillside,  now  again 
in  the  bosom  of  the  forest.  Every  time 
I  emerged  to  one  of  the  treeless  spots 
I  thrilled  to  behold  in  the  blue  distance 
the  summits  of  the  dark  green  mountains 
grouped  in  a  kind  of  solemn  and  noble  dis- 
order. Serene  though  the  sky  was  above, 
the  mountains,  nevertheless,  seemed  pos- 
sessed by  a  deep  and  changeless  melancholy. 
Mighty  pillars  they  stood,  reared  by  nature 
to  shelter  the  laughing  valleys ;  yet  they 
seemed  to  be  overhung  with  a  gloom  so 
profound  that  it  almost  made  your  heart 
ache.  I  thought  upon  rulers  of  men  and  the 

177 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

loneliness  said  to  surround  them  upon  the 
lofty  height  of  their  thrones.  In  my  own 
soul,  however,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
wholesome  joy  of  life. 


The  Valley  of  Ochre 

CHAPTER  XII 

THE  VALLEY  OF  OCHRE 

Wo  alle  Baume  sprechen 
Und  singen  wie  tin  Chor, 
Und  laute  ^uellen  brechen 
Wie  Tanzmusik  beruor. 

HEINE. 

THE  slope  downward  became  more 
abrupt  and  I  found  myself  fairly  run- 
ning down  hill.  The  most  blessed  of  all 
sounds,  the  murmur  of  a  stream,  came  to  my 
ears,  and  a  moment  later  I  bounded  into  the 
King's  Highway,  broad  and  white,  to  behold 
the  celebrated  Ochre  River  running  along 
beside  it.  The  celebrated  Ochre !  I  wondered 
whether  it  was  always  the  mere  runnel  that 
I  saw  before  me  at  that  moment.  If  it  was, 
how  came  it  to  be  so  famous?  In  the  wars  of 
the  Merovingians  we  hear  of  the  Ochre,  and 
Charlemagne,  the  godlike  Emperor,  we  read 

179 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

in  the  chronicles,  was  in  775  and  also  in 
780  encamped  victorious  beside  that  river. 
With  the  aid  of  the  sword,  cogent  argument, 
he  baptized  the  natives  in  the  waters  of  the 
Ochre.  The  impression  of  that  particular 
ceremony  did  not  prove  to  be  lasting,  for  the 
little  leaden  crosses  given  to  all  of  the  con- 
verts in  token  of  their  new  faith,  still  pepper 
the  bottom  of  the  historic  stream.  No  sooner 
was  the  back  of  the  conqueror  turned  than 
the  faith  and  the  symbolic  cross  were  alike 
hurled  into  the  yellowish  water.  It  was  this 
river,  too,  that  gave  us  the  pigment  bearing 
its  name,  and  that  is  the  reason  we  all  have 
Ochre  in  our  vocabularies.  I  stood  gazing 
at  the  little  mountain  stream,  listening  to 
its  sweet,  busy,  rippling  music,  as  one  in  a 
dream. 

Some  tall  woodsmen  of  these  parts  passing 
by  woke  me  out  of  my  reverie,  and  in  their 
melancholy  faces  I  seemed  to  see  the  same 
gloom  that  overhung  the  range  of  hills. 

1 80 


The  Valley  of  Ochre 

From  that  point  on,  to  the  end  of  my  jour- 
ney, the  faces  of  the  travelers  and  tourists  on 
the  Hartz  seemed  invariably  cheerful  and 
often  joyful.  The  natives,  on  the  other  hand, 
seemed  to  partake  of  the  gloom  of  the  rocks 
about  them.  Their  love  for  weird  tales  of 
death  and  horror  and  demons  is  not  im- 
probably a  phase  of  this  melancholy,  this 
twilight  that  settles  on  their  countenances 
and  in  their  souls.  There  was  a  kind  of  aus- 
terity even  in  the  laughter  of  the  moun- 
taineers. 

The  purling  river,  though  inconsiderable 
to-day,  must  have  been  stronger  in  the  past, 
for  as  I  walked  on  I  saw  that  even  the  para- 
sitic man-made  highway  had  failed  to  tame 
the  wild  gorge  cut  by  the  Ochre  in  the 
course  of  the  centuries.  Great  granite  rocks 
lie  tumbled  high  on  either  hand  and  savage 
bits  of  scenery  still  remain  to  tell  of  a  grander 
era  in  this  valley.  I  had  not  far  to  walk,  how- 
ever, before  I  came  to  Romkerhalle,  one  of 

181 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

the  most  beautiful  spots  in  the  Hartz.  The 
gorge  at  this  point  is  perhaps  at  its  deepest 
and  the  rocks  at  their  highest.  The  Ochre 
broadens  somewhat,  and  from  the  right 
comes  a  mountain  rill,  the  Romke,  tum- 
bling down  rocks  hundreds  of  feet  high,  in 
the  shape  of  a  triple  waterfall.  Directly  op- 
posite these  falls  is  a  small  hotel.  Half  a 
hundred  people  who  had  either  driven  or 
walked  here  from  Harzburg  sat  about  the 
tables  out  of  doors  gazing  up  at  the  rocks 
with  the  shining  water  tumbling  over  them. 
The  hum  of  the  tourists  mingled  with  the 
soft  and  agreeable  noise  of  the  waters,  and 
thus  the  sound  that  filled  this  part  of  the  val- 
ley was  not,  in  Nietzsche's  phrase,  "  all  too 
human,"  nor  yet  wholly  wild,  but  a  pleasant 
harmony  of  both.  I  unstrapped  my  knap- 
sack, ordered  refreshment,  and  gazed  peace- 
fully now  upon  the  flashing  waters,  now  on 
the  happy  throng  about  me.  There  was  no 
mountain  gloom  at  Romkerhalle. 

182 


The  Valley  of  Ochre 

The  water  splashed  and  prattled,  the  nu- 
merous tourists  were  going  hither  and  thither 
among  the  tables  greeting  acquaintances  or 
denuding  the  "curio"  booth  of  its  knick- 
knacks  and  colored  postcards.  Every  one  in 
this  holiday  atmosphere  was  either  buying 
or  addressing  picture-cards,  intent  upon  shar- 
ing his  pleasure  with  friends.  Coach  after 
coach,  in  the  meanwhile,  kept  arriving  and 
departing,  laden  with  passengers,  chatting, 
laughing,  and  even  singing.  I  felt  a  desire  to 
linger  here  a  long  time  and  then  to  take  the 
coach  to  Harzburg.  But  the  accusing  image 
of  Fraulein  Hoppe  rose  before  my  mind's 
eye,  and  I  dismissed  the  idea  as  unworthy. 
I  paid  my  score,  strapped  on  the  knapsack 
firmly,  grasped  my  stick,  and,  not  without 
a  yearning  look  at  the  waiting  coaches,  I 
turned  my  face  resolutely  toward  Harz- 
burg. 

The  Ochre,  which  I  now  followed  for 
some  distance,  will  long  remain  in  my  mem- 

183 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

ory  as  a  river  abounding  in  wonders.  Though 
the  stream  seemed  now  to  contain  everything 
but  water,  yet  the  heaps  of  yellow-coated 
boulders  piled  up  along  the  bed  pointed  to  a 
time  when  this  was  a  rushing,  headlong  cur- 
rent of  great  might.  It  had  cut  its  way  deep 
through  the  rocks  which,  in  places,  rose  to 
considerable  height  above  the  stream.  Fan- 
tastic figures,  carved  by  time  and  water  in 
those  rocks,  make  the  banks  picturesque. 
The  Sleeping  Lion  and  the  Monk  look  like 
rude  sculptures  on  a  gigantic  scale.  The  lion, 
especially,  couchant  in  the  rock,  gives  the 
impression  of  man's  handiwork.  The  left 
bank  is  for  the  most  part  a  sheer,  precipitous 
wall  of  dark  pine  forest,  sombre,  mysterious 
and  changeless.  Day  in  day  out  the  denizens 
of  the  village  of  Oker,  through  which  I 
passed,  have  that  eternal  black  wall  to  con- 
template from  their  windows.  No  wonder 
there  was  gloom  upon  their  faces  and  no 
laughter  in  their  eyes.  I  myself  was  begin- 

184 


THE  VALLEY  OF  OCHRE 


The  Valley  of  Ochre 

ning   to   feel   the   influence  and   therefore 
pressed  on. 

Night  was  falling  when  I  entered  the  city 
of  Harzburg  and  a  shower  of  rain  came  as 
an  advance  guard.  Seeing  a  coach  with  the 
name  of  the  hotel  my  guide-book  recom- 
mended as  the  first,  I  hailed  it  and  took  a 
seat  beside  the  driver,  all  other  places  being 
filled.  The  coachman,  as  usual,  asked  was  I 
English,  and  upon  learning  my  nationality 
inquired  "  whether  Roosevelt  lived  in  New 
York."  Then  with  a  sudden  transition  he 
desired  to  know  whether  a  lad  of  about  his 
own  inches  could  earn  a  livelihood  in  New 
York.  Without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  seen  Buffalo  Bill  at 
Magdeburg  some  years  ago,  and  he  did  me 
the  honor  to  add  that  I  spoke  better  German 
than  Mr.  Buffalo  Bill.  He  would  sail  for 
America  at  once,  he  told  me,  were  it  not  for 
the  Army  in  which  he  was  obliged  to  serve. 
For  that  reason  the  German  government 

I8J 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

would  not  permit  him  to  leave  the  coun- 
try. 

The  streets  through  which  we  were  driv- 
ing were  broad  and  populous.  Carriages  were 
swiftly  coursing  up  and  down  and  well-dressed 
women  were  rolling  in  luxurious  victorias. 
Long  rows  of  booths  displayed  a  store  of 
wares  meant  for  patronage  wealthier  than 
Hartz  natives,  or  even  the  run  of  German 
tourists.  In  short,  I  was  in  a  brisk  and  modern 
watering  place,  filled  with  traffic  and  foreign 
custom.  With  the  pack  on  my  back  I  felt 
out  of  place  in  this  Vanity  Fair  ;  and  though 
I  encountered  neither  Lord  Hate-Good  nor 
Sir  Having  Greedy,  yet  I  was  sure  they  must 
have  been  there  together  with  all  the  rest  of 
their  kind.  In  a  few  moments  we  drove  up 
to  the  Harzburger  Hof,  the  most  pretentious 
hotel  I  had  clapped  eyes  on  in  this  region. 


Vanity  Fair 

CHAPTER  XIII 

VANITY  FAIR 

Mein  Gott !  da  sieht  es  sauber  aus  ! 
Der  Kot  liegt  nicht  auf  den  Gassen  ; 
Viel  Pracbtgebaude  sab  ich  dort, 
Sehr  imponierende  Massen. 

HEINE. 

A  BABEL  of  tongues,  French,  Russian, 
German,  English,  fell  upon  my  ear 
as  I  entered  the  door,  a  portly  commissionaire 
with  bewhiskered  inscrutable  features  gently 
took  the  wet  knapsack  from  my  back  and 
conducted  me  to  a  splendid  apartment  look- 
ing out  to  the  Burgberg,  a  cone-shaped  moun- 
tain, pine-covered  and  towering  over  Harz- 
burg.  In  two  minutes  a  valet  came,  in 
Sterne's  phrase,  to  put  me  in  mind  of  my 
wants,  and  altogether  I  was  surrounded  by 
more  ceremony  than  I  cared  about.  I  missed 
the  homely  circumstance  of  Klausthal  and 

187 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Osterode;  all  this  luxury  jarred  upon  my 
taste  for  simplicity  which  the  journey  until 
now  had  driven  home  in  so  agreeable  a  man- 
ner. There  was  nothing  for  it,  however,  but 
to  do  as  the  Romans,  and  'to  listen  with 
gravity  to  the  valet's  petition  for  a  place  as 
my  body-servant. 

That  tailorish  little  person  busied  himself 
about  the  room,  at  the  same  time  narrating 
in  a  lively  fashion  the  chief  events  of  his 
important  life.  A  German  gentleman  in 
whose  service  he  had  spent  many  years  had 
carried  him  all  over  the  habitable  globe  and 
thus  bred  in  him  an  ineradicable  passion  for 
travel.  America  was  the  land  that  had  formed 
the  deepest  imprint  upon  his  fancy.  I  was 
American,  was  I  not?  He  knew  it  at  a  glance. 
Indeed,  the  very  instant  he  had  set  eyes  on 
me  he  felt  that  jointly  we  represented  his 
ideal  inner  picture  of  master  and  man.  Poor, 
and  could  not  keep  a  valet !  Ha !  Ha  !  He 
knew  all  about  the  poverty  of  Americans, 

188 


Vanity  Fair 


particularly  if  they  stopped  at  the  Harz- 
burger  Hof.  I  told  him  I  should  see  him 
to-morrow. 

Upon  entering  the  dining-room  I  felt 
even  more  the  difference  between  the  other 
guests  and  myself.  Portly  gentry  they  were, 
stock-brokers,  many  of  them,  at  the  very 
least,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion  and 
suitably  to  the  hour.  My  rough  mountain- 
eering clothes  must  have  given  me  a  sort  of 
Cinderella  air,  and  that  notion  amused  me. 
Among  the  rich  there  is  always  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  new  rich,  and  these,  on  the 
Continent  at  all  events,  seem  to  take  it  out 
of  life,  as  the  phrase  goes,  in  solemn-visaged 
silence.  From  time  to  time  they  gazed 
fiercely  about  them  and  then  hung  brood- 
ing over  their  plates  like  a  leaden  sky.  Here 
and  there,  of  course,  there  was  some  sem- 
blance of  life,  but  life  and  laughter  are  scarce 
among  the  rich.  The  waiters  however,  I 
must  in  justice  add,  were  fully  as  attentive 

189 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

to  me  as  to  the  most  bejewelled  and  sullen 
of  shirt  fronts.  Mentally  I  kept  repeating 
to  myself  that  I  was  a  gay,  rollicking  blade, 
in  self-defensive  protest  against  all  that  so- 
lemnity. 

After  dinner  I  entered  a  large  and  softly 
lighted  coffee-room  that  was  already  filled 
with  guests.  My  friends,  the  new  rich,  still 
clung  to  their  ferocious  silence,  but  here 
there  were  also  some  groups  of  gentler  folk 
who  conducted  themselves  with  something 
like  ease.  Some  of  the  German  family  par- 
ties contained  high-bred,  beautiful  girls 
whose  talk  fell  musically  on  the  ear  and 
whose  manners  were  simple  and  modest. 
In  one  corner  two  young  men  seemed  to 
be  calling  on  two  young  ladies  under  the 
benignant  eyes  of  the  parents.  Those  girls, 
as  girls  sometimes  will  when  young  men  are 
near,  were  lavishing  their  attentions  upon  a 
handsome  boy  of  seven  or  eight  and  vastly 
spoiling  that  youngster.  His  little  sister  stood 

190 


Vanity  Fair 


quite  crestfallen  to  find  herself  neglected 
while  he  was  being  made  so  much  of.  A 
few  years  later,  I  thought,  when  this  child 
has  learned  her  woman's  arts,  she  may  look 
back  comprehendingly  on  her  to-night's 
experience.  I  took  up  a  Frankfort  news- 
paper while  waiting  for  coffee,  and  the  first 
thing  that  fell  under  my  eye  was  the  list 
of  American  Stock  Exchange  quotations. 
Hastily  I  threw  down  the  paper  and  for  the 
balance  of  the  evening  contented  myself 
with  reading  my  neighbors.  It  was  no  ill 
reading,  either,  with  the  Slav  and  Gaul  and 
Teuton  so  thoroughly  intermingled.  But  I 
could  not  thrust  away  an  uneasy  feeling  that 
inadvertently  I  had  strayed  somewhat  too 
close  to  the  coast  of  Philistia,  which  is  more 
dangerous  and  far  less  attractive  than  the 
coast  of  Bohemia. 

The  next  morning  when  my  valet  with 
the  wanderlust  brought  the  hot  water,  he 
respectfully  wished  to  know  whether  I  meant 

191 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

to  take  the  hot,  the  cold,  or  the  pine-needle 
baths.  In  a  world  teeming  with  variety,  tastes 
were  apt  to  differ ;  his  personal  preference, 
however,  lay  with  the  pine-needles.  He  was 
one  of  those  unimaginative  people  who  al- 
ways take  the  obvious  for  granted.  I  was  at  a 
watering-place,  therefore  he  blinked  all  in- 
dications to  the  contrary  and  concluded  I 
had  come  to  take  the  baths.  I  was  on  the 
point  of  citing  Dr.  Johnson  as  authority  that 
one  might  be  born  in  a  stable  and  yet  not 
be  a  horse.  But  instead  I  told  him  briefly 
my  intention  to  sleep  that  night  on  the 
Brocken. 

"  Ach  so  ? "  he  marveled,  and  added  that 
his  defunct  master,  the  German  gentleman, 
would  not  have  dreamed  of  stirring  forth  on 
so  murky  a  morning. 

"That,"  said  I  with  gravity,  "must  have 
been  precisely  the  point  where  he  and  I  dif- 
fered." 

l"  he  replied  with  military  brev- 
192 


Vanity  Fair 


ity,  and  I  could  see  that  I  fell  in  his  esteem. 
He  had  the  manners  to  renew  his  suit  for 
employment  and  to  give  me  his  address,  but 
I  saw  plainly  his  heart  was  no  longer  in  it ; 
not  with  such  eccentrics  as  I  would  a  com- 
fortable body  like  himself  be  taking  ser- 
vice. 

He  saw  me  gazing  out  to  the  Burgberg, 
the  dark,  conical  mountain,  crowned  with 
a  gray  castle  ruin. 

*'  If  the  Herr  should  ascend  there,"  said 
the  valet,  "  he  might  be  enriched  by  the 
woman  in  white  that  guards  a  treasure  at 
the  bottom  of  a  well.  I  have  been  there 
and  I  am  still  poor,"  he  added  blithely. 

"  Then,"  I  replied,  "  it  were  useless  for 
me  to  try."  There  are  many  legends  here 
of  men  and  children  who  had  been  richly 
dealt  with  by  the  ghostly  virgin  who  guards 
the  ubiquitous  treasure.  Gold  and  silver  and 
plate  she  has  given  away  freely,  though  not  of 
late  years,  so  the  valet  informed  me.  Tour- 

193 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

ists,  apparently,  do  not  promote  in  the  na- 
tives the  habit  of  giving. 

One  legend  has  it  that  Henry  IV,  the 
Emperor  who  had  waited  barefoot  on  the 
Pope's  pleasure  at  Canossa,  hurled  his  crown 
into  the  well  on  the  mountain.  Later,  he 
took  up  his  residence  in  a  subterranean  palace 
there  —  he,  Otto  IV  and  Barbarossa,  the 
three  monarchs  who  at  one  time  or  another 
during  their  life  had  dwelt  in  the  castle.  It 
is  from  their  regal  abundance  that  the  lady 
in  white  was  wont  to  scatter  her  largesse.  At 
one  time  in  its  history,  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  the  castle  had  so  far  degenerated 
from  its  royal  estate  as  to  become  a  nest  of 
robber-barons.  Three  brothers  named  Von 
Schwiecheldt  lifted  all  the  cattle  in  the  re- 
gion and  led  their  neighbors  a  merry  dance. 
The  lords,  spiritual  and  temporal,  could  not 
keep  the  predatory  brothers  down,  until 
gun-powder  was  invented.  The  robbers  in 
their  mountain  fastness  could  not  take  note 

194 


Vanity  Fair 

of  the  march  of  science.  Their  occupation 
left  them  but  little  leisure.  When  the  allied 
lords  of  the  neighborhood  opened  fire  with 
the  new  engines  of  destruction  the  brothers 
saw  their  time  had  come.  To-day  an  obelisk 
stands  upon  the  Burgberg  inscribed  with 
Bismarck's  famous  phrase,  "  We  are  not  go- 
ing to  Canossa." 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN 

Peitschenknall,  Hallo  und  Hussa  ! 
Rossgewieh'r.     Gebell  von  Hunden  ! 
yagdhorntbne  und  Gelachter  ! 
Wie  das  jauchzend  widerballte  ! 

HEINE. 

THE  morning  wore  on  and  still  the 
clouds  of  a  forbidding  darkness  hung 
oppressively  over  Harzburg.  Vainly  I  waited 
for  a  ray  of  sunshine,  but  as  none  broke 
through  I  paid  my  score  and  braced  myself 
for  the  ascent  of  the  Brocken  before  the  lux- 
uries of  that  all  too  comfortable  hotel  could 
wholly  corrupt  me.  Briskly  I  followed  a 
winding  path  that  leads  you  almost  at  once 
into  the  forest,  and  soon  I  shut  out  all  view 
of  the  flesh  pots  I  had  left  behind.  Two 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  stragglers  of  a 
party  that  was  walking  toward  a  retreat  called 

196 


The  Wild  Huntsman 

Molkenhaus,  were  lustily  shouting  for  the 
echo,  that  repeated  their  cries  and  sent  them 
reverberating  among  the  pines.  They  seemed 
like  another  Haensel  and  Gretel,  half  terri- 
fied, half  delighted,  with  the  mighty  stir  they 
were  creating  in  the  dusky  forest.  Thinking 
to  amuse  them,  I  joined  the  echo  in  answer- 
ing their  calls.  For  a  moment  they  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  But  when  they 
looked  about  and  saw  the  dark  figure  of  a 
pedestrian  with  a  pack  on  his  back  following 
in  their  path,  they  clasped  hands  and  ran  as 
fast  as  their  little  legs  could  carry  them.  I 
laughed  aloud  and  made  signs  to  convey  how 
utterly  harmless  I  was,  but  they  only  ran  the 
harder  until  they  joined  their  elder  a  farther 
on.  Later  when  I  passed  them  they  seemed 
brave  enough,  now  that  they  were  securely 
with  their  friends. 

"  Der  wilde  Jaeger"  they  whispered  au- 
dibly to  each  other,  "  the  wild  huntsman!" 
and  exploded  with  shouts  of  laughter.  Evi- 

197 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

dently  they  had  walked  here  before,  and 
some  one  had  told  them  the  tale  of  the  Wild 
Huntsman,  for  this  is  the  region  where  the 
huntsman  roams.  The  English  version  of  the 
Wild  Huntsman,  that  brought  fame  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  1796,  is  generally  familiar. 
The  rabid  Wildgrave,  who  trampled  peas- 
ants' fields,  heedlessly  slew  their  cattle,  and 
even  rode  down  poor  folk,  whenever  ill- 
luck  threw  them  in  the  way  of  his  mad 
cavalcade,  is  vividly  depicted  in  Scott's  poem. 
But  in  the  neighborhood  of  Harzburg  an- 
other legend,  that  of  the  savage  nun,  Ursula, 
is  woven  in  with  the  tale  of  Hackelberg. 

Ursula  was  a  strapping  young  woman, 
noble  of  birth,  but  rough  of  manner,  whose 
father  had  delighted  in  her  accomplishments 
—  which  were  far  from  womanly.  She  could 
course  with  the  hounds  and  wind  the  bugle- 
horn  and  hunt  the  boar  with  the  best  of  her 
father's  trencher  companions.  After  his  death, 
her  kinsfolk  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  with 


HAR/.BURC;:  WHERE  THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN  ROAMS 


The  Wild  Huntsman 

a  girl  so  strangely  reared.  They  could  not 
let  her  associate  with  their  own  delicate 
daughters,  so  they  put  her  in  a  convent.  Now, 
that  convent  was  famed  throughout  the 
Hartz  for  the  beauty  of  its  singing;  all  of 
the  nuns  in  it  were  of  noble  race.  When  the 
Abbess  for  the  first  time  heard  Ursula's  voice 
joining  in  the  choir,  she  shuddered.  The 
other  nuns  turned  pale.  Never  had  sounds  so 
rude  and  harsh  and  uncouth  desecrated  the 
walls  of  that  house.  The  voice  was  that  of  a 
villainous  stable-fellow,  not  of  a  lady  born. 
The  Abbess  commanded  her  never  again  to 
sing  in  that  convent.  The  nuns  shunned  her ; 
life  became  a  burden  to  her.  The  captive 
herself  drooped  more  pitifully  everyday.  One 
night  she  vanished. 

After  much  search  the  Abbess,  to  her  dis- 
may, learned  that  Ursula  had  fled  to  the  Wild- 
grave  Hans  von  Hackelberg,  of  Harzburg, 
the  most  ardent  of  all  huntsmen,  whom  she 
had  known  in  her  father's  house.  Neither 

199 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

threat  nor  curse  by  bell,  book,  and  candle 
could  bring  Ursula  back  to  the  cloisters.  She 
was  in  her  element,  and  together  with  Hack- 
elberg,  of  the  flashing  eye,  she  hunted  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  pausing  not  for  wind  or 
weather,  not  for  Saint  or  Sunday.  Ursula 
shouted  with  loud  delight,  and  unceasingly 
they  followed  the  chase. 

The  Wildgrave  winds  the  bugle  horn, 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo  ! 

His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn, 

And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 

Horse  and  hound,  lord  and  serf,  madly 
dashing,  crying,  shouting,  rushed  like  a  whirl- 
wind through  the  forest,  filling  the  gloom 
with  the  wildest  noises  as  day  after  day  they 
pursued  their  quarry. 

On  the  Maundy  Thursday  came  the 
priest  to  Hackelberg  and  said : 

"To-morrow  is  Good  Friday,  lord." 

"To-morrow  is  the  great  boar-hunt,"  was 
the  gruff"  reply.  The  priest  entreated  him  to 

200 


The  Wild  Huntsman 

pay  more  heed  to  the  Church's  festivals,  for 
his  soul's  sake. 

"  I  have  naught  against  you  or  your  cloth," 
said  Hackelberg, "  if  only  you  forbear  burden- 
ing my  life  with  your  prating.  Would  I 
could  hunt  from  now  till  doomsday  morn- 
ing. Never  should  I  rue  it;  not  I." 

"God  save  you  from  such  a  fate,  lord," 
murmured  the  priest.  "  Long  is  eternity  and 
precious  is  salvation — " 

"  Precious  tome  is  the  chase,"  broke  in  the 
Wildgrave  roughly, "  and  more  precious  than 
all  is  the  boar-hunt.  Away  with  your  salva- 
tion !  Give  me  the  chase  forever  —  if  only 
you  could ! " 

Good  folk  on  their  way  to  church  the 
next  day  felt  ill  at  ease  as  they  leaped  aside 
to  make  way  for  the  noisy  cavalcade  on  its 
way  to  the  hunt. 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  laughed  Hackelberg  raucously. 
"  I  dreamt  that  a  mighty  tusker  gave  me  my 
quietus,  instead  of  t'  other  way  about."  The 

201 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

huntsmen  who  followed  the  Wildgrave  per- 
force felt  somewhat  ashamed  when  they 
beheld  the  church-goers  and,  upon  hearing 
of  Hackelberg's  ominous  dream  they  coun- 
seled him  to  turn  back. 

Hackelberg  roared  with  harsh  laughter. 
Ursula  blew  a  blast  upon  the  horn,  gave  her 
roan  the  spur  and  fairly  flew  over  hill  and  dale 
with  Hackelberg  shouting  and  crying  after 
her,  so  that  the  forest  rang  again. 

Soon  the  Wildgrave's  unerring  spear 
lodged  in  the  side  of  a  mighty  boar.  The 
beast  made  a  leap  for  the  huntsman,  but 
again  the  spear  sank  deep  in  its  side,  and  soon 
the  man  had  laid  low  his  prey. 

"  And  this  was  to  be  my  undoing ! "  he 
laughed.  "  That  were  truly  a  new  leaf  in  the 
annals  of  Hackelberg's  hunting."  So  saying 
he  kicked  aside  the  head  of  the  stricken 
beast.  The  sharp  tusk  pierced  the  leathern 
boot  to  the  bone  of  the  Wildgrave  and  the 
foam  on  the  mouth  of  the  boar  was  absorbed 

202 


The  Wild  Huntsman 

by  the  wound.  The  foot  began  quickly  to 
swell  and  Hackelberg  was  carried  by  his  com- 
panions to  a  hunting-lodge  near  by. 

Like  an  arrow  Ursula's  roan  sped  up  the 
Burgberg,  and  with  fear  and  foreboding  in 
her  heart  she  implored  the  priest  to  come  to 
the  aid  of  the  wounded  forest-lord. 

"If  only  the  Wildgrave  recovers,"  she 
vowed,  "I  shall  return  to  the  convent 
forevermore.  But  come  at  once,  I  pray 
you." 

"That  lies  in  God's  hands,"  slowly  an- 
swered the  pious  man.  "  I  doubt,  more- 
over, whether  the  right  reverend  lady  Abbess 
would  set  much  store  by  your  return." 

Hackelberg  received  the  priest  with  rage 
and  with  curses.  He  would  hear  nothing  of 
religion  or  prayer. 

"If  you  bring  me  no  aid,"  he  cried,  "  you 
might  have  remained  on  the  Burgberg.  I 
am  angry  that  a  trifle  should  spoil  me  days 
of  hunting." 

203 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  Days,  my  lord?"  said  the  priest.  "  Never 
again  will  you  follow  the  hunt,  for  your 
wound  is  mortal." 

Whereupon  the  Wildgrave  raged  and 
cursed  the  more  in  his  fury  and  swore  away 
his  immortal  soul.  On  a  sudden  he  grew 
dumb  and  stark ;  he  died  without  consolation. 
They  buried  him  near  to  the  lodge,  and  the 
denizens  of  Harzburg  breathed  more  freely 
when  that  evil  life,  which  had  filled  their 
hills  with  clamor,  was  stilled  at  last. 

But  one  night  after  the  coming  of  the  full 
moon,  Ursula's  gray  veil  was  seen  floating 
from  the  tower  upon  the  Harzburg.  Once 
again  she  seemed  to  wind  her  bugle  horn  and 
the  Hartz  folk  down  below  awoke  from  their 
sleep  in  a  tremor  of  fright.  Hackelberg  was 
again  rushing  through  the  forest  on  his  steed. 
The  castle-gate  flew  open;  Ursula  and  all 
the  troop  leaped  forth  and  joyously  sur- 
rounded their  ancient  lord,  the  Phantom 
Huntsman.  Ursula  greeted  him  with  delight. 

204 


The  Wild  Huntsman 

Again  she  blew  a  blast  more  wild  and  strange 
than  ever  before.  The  storm  wind  howled, 
the  thunder  rolled  and  crackled ;  but  the  owl- 
screech  of  Ursula's  bugle  was  louder  than 
all.  The  nightbirds  circled  about  the  ghastly 
cavalcade;  louder  bayed  the  savage  hounds 
and  louder  still  rang  out  the  "Wod  wod" 
of  Hackelberg's  hunting  cry.  People  crossed 
themselves  for  fear.  Horse  and  hound,  lord 
and  serf,  madly  dashing,  crying,  shouting, 
rushed  like  a  whirlwind  through  the  forest, 
filling  the  gloom  with  the  wildest  noises  as 
they  pursued  their  quarry. 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase, 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end ; 

By  day,  they  scour  earth's  cavern'd  space, 
At  midnight's  witching  hour,  ascend. 

This  is  the  horn,  and  hound,  and  horse, 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears ; 

Appalled,  he  signs  the  frequent  cross, 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

205 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
For  human  pride,  for  human  woe, 

When  at  his  midnight  mass  he  hears 
The  infernal  cry  of  "  Holla-ho  !  " 

And  so  it  will  be  till  doomsday  morning. 


Witches'  Trail 


CHAPTER    XV 
WITCHES'   TRAIL 

Seh'  die  B'dume  hinter  Baumen^ 
Wie  sit  schnell  voruberrucken^ 
Und  die  Klippen^  die  sich  biicken, 
Und  die  langen  Fehennasen.  .  .  . 

GOETHE. 

IT  was  no  wonder,  in  view  of  the  texture 
of  the  tale,  that  the  children  laughed 
when  they  dubbed  me  the  Wild  Huntsman. 
A  very  mild  bogey,  indeed,  I  proved  to  be 
as  I  smiled  at  them  in  passing.  Speedily  I 
left  them  and  their  elders  behind  and  pushed 
on  to  the  Molkenhaus,  the  station  toward 
which  all  those  promenaders  were  making. 
I  love  my  fellow  men,  but  I  was  earnest 
enough  pedestrian  to  feel  somewhat  ham- 
pered by  the  dawdling  "  constitutional  " 
walkers  on  this  fine  forest  road.  Just  as  I 

207 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

spied  the  red  roofs  of  the  woodland  dairy 
bearing  the  name  of  Molkenhaus,  the  rain, 
that  had  not  fallen  for  almost  three  hours, 
began  to  descend,  and  a  throng  of  prome- 
naders  soon  filled  the  refreshment  pavilion 
by  the  roadside.  I  ordered  coffee  only  "for 
the  house's  sake,"  in  return  for  the  shelter 
over  my  head. 

A  herd  of  gentle  Alderney  cows  was  rumi- 
nating in  a  pasture  beyond  the  house,  op- 
posite the  pavilion,  and  in  an  inclosure  a 
number  of  deer  standing  or  lying  down,  were 
thoughtfully  chewing  the  cud  with  a  fine 
philosophical  air.  They  had,  I  reflected, 
much  need  of  philosophy  to  be  content  be- 
hind fences,  with  the  free  and  noble  forest 
on  every  side  of  them.  Their  ancestors,  I 
thought,  must  have  been  a  fiercer  race,  for 
they  lived  among  the  pines,  with  the  danger 
of  Hackelberg's  troop  ever  upon  them.  Now 
their  mild  descendants  were  fed  with  hay 
by  human  hands !  Philosophy  !  Perhaps  it 

208 


Witches'  Trail 


was  merely  the  indolence  of  luxury :  that  is 
how  Rome  declined  and  fell. 

Round  about  me  all  the  tongues  of  Eu- 
rope were  being  spoken,  chattered,  mur- 
mured; French  and  Danish,  German  and 
Spanish,  Roumanian  and  Russian.  A  huck- 
ster at  a  booth  was  driving  a  rapid  trade  in 
wooden  fans  and  paper-cutters,  and  I  myself, 
seeing  the  rain  bade  fair  to  continue  all  day, 
began  reluctant  treaty  for  an  umbrella.  Thus 
far  I  had  prided  myself  on  traveling  with- 
out any  such  impediment.  A  ten-year  old 
Russian  boy  who  was  buying  lollipops  be- 
gan a  conversation  with  me  and  inquired 
the  name  of  my  country. 

"America!"  he  cried.  "I  read  in  the 
newspaper  that  Americans  waste  millions." 

"And  I,"  was  my  reply,  "read  that  Rus- 
sia wastes  men.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 
But  he  had  not  yet  reached  the  age  of  argu- 
ment. Some  other  notion  having  popped 
into  his  head,  he  branched  off  to  a  wholly 

209 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

new  subject.  In  the  meantime  the  huckster 
was  waging  a  guerrilla  warfare  upon  my  com- 
mon sense  with  his  umbrella.  I  had  declined 
to  pay^the  price  he  asked  as  exorbitant  and 
had  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  go  with- 
out the  umbrella.  He  came  down  a  point 
but  still  asked  too  much.  On  a  sudden,  how- 
ever, he  turned  frank. 

"Herr,"  said  he,  "the  umbrella  would 
cost  in  Berlin  so  much.  I  charge  you  so 
much  in  addition,  because  this  is  not  Berlin 
with  a  thousand  shops.  This  is  the  Hartz. 
That  is  why  I  ask  more  than  the  value.'* 
Whereupon  I  paid  his  price  and  departed. 

All  the  chattering,  coffee-drinking  "  cure- 
guests"  were  soon  far  behind  me,  and  I  set- 
tled into  that  easy,  swinging  stride  that  is 
the  pedestrian's  delight.  I  was  again  alone 
in  the  forest  with  its  sounds  and  its  silences, 
that  I  had  come  to  love  so  well.  The  breezes 
gently  fanned  my  face,  the  birds  caroled 
overhead,  the  very  path  seemed  to  welcome 

210 


Witches'  Trail 


my  footsteps.  Suddenly,  after  the  manner  of 
the  Hartz,  the  sun  broke  through  the  clouds 
almost  before  the  rain  ceased  and  the  soft 
caressing  light  seemed  to  seek  me  through 
the  treetops.  Before  long  my  road  came  to 
a  small  mountain  streamlet,  the  Ecker,  which 
flows  into  the  Ochre;  for  even  the  Ochre 
has  tributaries.  The  Ecker  bickering  down 
to  the  valley  with  all  its  might  has  all  the 
pretty  ways  of  the  poet's  brook.  Whether 
it  comes  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern,  or 
not,  it  seems,  with  prodigious  bustle,  to  be 
relating  its  little  adventures  since  it  left  the 
Brocken.  For  some  time  I  kept  that  stream 
on  my  right  hand,  like  an  honored  guest, 
and  listened  with  zest  to  its  soothing  mur- 
murous tale.  I  found  myself  singing  as  I 
went,  with  what  a  light  and  joyous  heart, 
for  mother  earth  had  blissfully  relieved  me  of 
all  my  sorrows  and  cares.  Many  a  time  have 
I  wished  since  then  that  my  heart  could 
rejoice  again  as  it  did  that  day  by  the  Ecker. 

211 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

A  German  student  who  passed  me  in  this 
region  said  that  he  had  left  the  Brocken  that 
morning,  and  that  a  heavy  rain  was  falling 
at  the  time.  Remote  and  unimportant  as 
this  fact  may  seem  now,  I  remember  that 
it  cast  a  kind  of  cloud  upon  me  then.  It  had 
been  my  hope  to  come  upon  the  Brocken 
in  sunshine  ;  to  be  told  that  all  was  obscured 
by  clouds  on  the  peak  to  which  I  had  been 
looking  as  the  shining  goal  of  my  travels, 
was  quite  dispiriting.  One  cannot,  however, 
remain  long  dispirited  with  soft  sunshine,  a 
blue  sky,  the  song  of  birds  overhead,  and 
good,  springing  turf  underfoot.  I  had,  more- 
over, attained  in  the  course  of  these  forest 
wanderings  to  a  serenity  of  mind  that,  as  I 
found  afterwards,  was  proof  against  more 
disturbing  occurrences  than  the  student's 
announcement.  Soon,  therefore,  I  forgot 
the  student  and  the  rain,  and  literally  went 
on  my  way  rejoicing,  with  the  gentle  mur- 
mur of  the  Ecker  still  filling  my  ears  like 

212 


Witches'  Trail 


a  kind  of  psalmody.  That  and  the  occasional 
whispering  of  the  trees  seemed  nature's 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  for  all  those  bless- 
ings to  which  I  bore  joyous  testimony  as  I 
moved  among  them.  Beauty  like  this,  it 
seemed  to  me,  inspires  a  kind  of  reverence 
in  the  human  breast  that  all  the  churches 
might  envy. 

On  a  sudden  strange,  loud  noises  filled 
the  forest,  and  soon  I  saw  before  me  three 
tall  Germans,  broad  of  girth  and  ruddy  of 
face,  frisking  about  like  school-boys.  Their 
capacious  lungs  were  filling  the  woods  with 
sound,  and  the  echoes  were  busy  with  their 
laughter.  They  seemed  fitter  far  for  haunts 
of  flowing  beer  than  for  hard  walking  among 
the  mountains ;  but  when  we  paused  for  greet- 
ing I  found  they  were  every  one  of  them 
poets.  They  overflowed  with  sentimental 
imagery  and  praise  of  the  road  they  had 
traveled,  and  strongly  advised  me  to  go  the 
way  they  had  come. 

213 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  We  have  been  walking  three  days," 
spluttered  one  of  them  in  a  high  state  of 
glee,  "and  we  have  all  but  made  up  our 
minds  to  walk  the  rest  of  the  summer.'* 

They  wore  no  special  costume,  but  the 
ordinary  clothes  of  the  every-day  German 
citizen,  and,  of  course,  the  usual  empty  green 
knapsack  on  their  backs.  A  few  moments 
after  we  parted,  I  looked  about,  and  already 
the  stout  varlets  with  their  exuberant  stride 
were  a  goodly  distance  behind  me,  but  the 
forest  still  rang  with  their  song  and  laughter. 
I  moved  on  somewhat  more  slowly  than  be- 
fore, consulting  the  map  frequently,  for  this 
was  a  place  of  cross-paths  and  drift-ways. 
My  road,  however,  I  found  without  any  great 
difficulty,  and  before  long  I  came  upon  the 
wayside  forest  inn  of  Scharfenstein.  This 
was  the  last  place  where  I  could  obtain  food 
before  reaching  the  top  of  the  Brocken,  for 
Scharfenstein  lies  almost  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  In  Heine's  day,  it  seems,  there 

214 


Witches'  Trail 


was  no  station  in  this  region ;  the  poet,  there- 
fore, was  compelled  to  partake  of  the  bread 
and  cheese  of  a  shepherd  lad  concerning 
whom  he  wrote  a  lively  poem,  beginning  — 

"  A  monarch  is  the  shepherd  lad 
A  hillock  green  his  throne  — " 

Something  better  than  bread  and  cheese 
was  served  me  by  the  solitary  waiter  in  this 
secluded  little  forest  inn,  though  the  con- 
ditions were  somewhat  less  romantic  than 
those  described  by  Heine.  The  small  wooden 
house  is  set  in  the  middle  of  a  vegetable 
garden,  and  near  the  house  is  a  pavilion  with 
a  few  tables  and  chairs.  The  waiter,  a  young 
man  of  twenty-five,  brought  me  to  the  pa- 
vilion, besides  the  inevitable  schnitzel,  deli- 
cious vegetables,  to  say  nothing  of  a  quantity 
of  conversation.  He  greatly  resembled  my 
flat-footed  friend  of  Gottingen ;  he,  too,  in- 
terlarded his  speech  with  English  phrases, 
and  told  me  of  his  travels  in  foreign  parts. 
As  a  cabin  steward  on  an  Atlantic  steamship 
215 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

he  had  visited  New  York,  and  he  spoke  with 
rapture  of  Fifth  Avenue.  He  was  apparently 
given  to  drawing  a  long  bow,  and,  as  he 
rattled  on,  his  speech  was  comically  punc- 
tuated by  shots  from  the  surrounding  forest, 
where  its  proprietor,  a  prince  of  the  house 
of  Stolberg-Wernigerode,  was  hunting  small 
game. 

"  His  Transparency,"  said  the  waiter  ex- 
citedly, "paused  here  this  morning,  and 
spoke  to  me  just  as  you  are  speaking  now." 

"It  is  pretty  clear,"  said  I,  "that  His 
Transparency  is  no  ordinary  prince." 

"That  he  is  not,"  readily  assented  the 
waiter,  and  he  descanted  much,  though  rather 
obscurely,  on  the  greatness  of  the  house  of 
Stolberg-Wernigerode.  Upon  inquiry  as  to 
a  family  resembling  the  Hoppes,  the  waiter 
could  not  tell  me  whether  or  not  they  had 
passed  this  way.  His  mind  was  that  day 
wholly  absorbed  by  His  Transparency. 

No  sooner  had  I  left  the  house  than  a 
216 


Witches'  Trail 


gentle  rain  began  to  fall,  and  my  Molken- 
haus  umbrella  had  to  be  opened  and  kept 
open  for  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon. 
The  ascent,  gradual  at  first,  became  rapidly 
precipitous  and  grew  more  difficult  with 
every  step.  A  magnificent  pine  forest 
clothes  the  lower  part  of  the  Brocken,  and 
as  you  stoop  toiling  to  your  climb  the  great 
snake-like  roots  of  those  giant  trees  seem  to 
grasp  the  soil  with  mighty  convulsions  of 
titanic  fingers.  You  glance  up  and  the  dark 
green  tops  seem  to  prop  the  sky.  Frequently 
the  roots,  all  gnarled  and  twisted,  climb  over 
large  granite  rocks  before  they  seize  the 
earth,  and  yet  the  trees  they  nourish  are  no 
less  towering  and  upright.  Nature  here  shows 
none  of  her  gentler  aspects  of  the  green  val- 
leys, but  all  her  fierce,  rude,  awe-inspiring 
strength.  Heine  records  having  seen  "  yel- 
low deer  "  here  when  he  made  his  climb. 
If  any  still  remained,  they  must  have  kept 
to  the  dry  thickets.  I  saw  nothing  but  run- 
217 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

nels  of  water  moving  down  the  muddy  road. 
Heine,moreover,  had  golden  sunlight  all  the 
way.  I  had  nothing  but  a  steady  rain  that 
accompanied  me  like  a  too-faithful  friend  as 
I  climbed  among  the  pines. 

A  party  of  two  men  and  a  young  woman, 
Russians  by  their  speech,  were  in  advance 
of  me,  and  for  a  brief  space  I  walked  with 
them.  But  the  rain  was  too  heavy  for  the  gait 
set  by  the  woman,  and  I  moved  on  as  rapidly 
as  I  could.  Now  and  then  I  would  stand  for 
a  few  moments  under  a  tree  to  rest  and  gaze 
at  the  glistening  moss  banks,  or  listen  to  the 
ceaseless  murmur  of  partly  subterranean 
waters.  But  these  breathing  spells  were  of 
necessity  short;  too  long  delay,  I  feared, 
would  make  the  path  more  miry,  and  I 
pressed  on  with  all  my  strength.  How  I  en- 
vied the  Germans  their  light  knapsacks  now ! 
Every  ounce  upon  my  back  was  ten  pounds 
as  I  kept  interminably  stepping  up  on  ledges 
of  rocks  in  the  way.  The  pines  kept  grow- 

218 


TOILING   UP  THE    KKOCKF.N 


Witches'  Trail 


ing  shorter  the  higher  I  climbed,  and  a  lit- 
tle more  than  half  way  up  the  mountain  the 
stunted  fir  tree  began  to  predominate. 

In  a  wayside  hut,  a  shelter  for  travelers, 
a  family  of  Saxons,  a  man  and  two  women, 
sat  munching  sandwiches.  The  knapsacks 
on  their  backs  hung  quite  empty;  at  last  I 
had  ascertained  the  secret  of  the  German 
knapsack.  The  women  were  tall  and  strap- 
ping, with  plain  good-natured  faces.  They 
urged  their  man  to  resume  his  journey,  but 
that  mild,  blond  little  fellow  with  his  small 
sparse  moustache  and  mincing  mouth,  pro- 
tested he  was  still  too  tired.  They  jocularly 
offered  to  carry  him,  and  they  could  have 
done  it  with  ease.  We  all  left  the  hut  to- 
gether, but  soon  the  difficulty  of  the  way 
was  too  much  for  the  little  Saxon,  and  he 
paused  for  breath,  the  two  towering  females 
looking  down  upon  him  half  tenderly,  half 
contemptuously.  The  fir  trees  kept  shrinking 
in  size,  and  huge  cairns  of  granite  rock  lined 
219 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

the  way,  as  though  hurled  together  by  Ti- 
tans' hands.  So  steep  is  the  way  here  that,  in 
Heine's  phrase,  even  Mephistopheles  must 
breathe  hard  as  he  climbs  this,  his  favorite 
mountain-side.  The  trees  wholly  die  away 
as  you  ascend.  You  see  only  elderberry  bushes 
and  some  rank,  hardy  vegetation,  those  na- 
tives of  the  rocks.  My  heart  gave  a  little 
leap  as  I  descried,  without  any  preliminary 
glimpses,  the  ugly,  unpretentious  caravanserai 
known  as  the  Brockenhaus  standing  bleak 
and  solitary  on  the  bald  top  of  the  moun- 
tain. 


The  Brocken 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE   BROCKEN 

We,  it  seems,  have  entered  newly 
In  the  sphere  of  dreams  enchanted. 
Do  thy  bidding,  guide  us  truly, 
That  our  feet  be  forward  planted 
In  the  vast,  the  desert  spaces  ! 

GOETHE. 

THE  very  first  persons  I  met  as  I  crossed 
the  threshold  were  the  Geheimrath 
Hoppe  and  his  bright-eyed  daughter.  They 
were  standing  hospitably  in  the  doorway, 
gazing  into  the  curtain  of  cloud. 

"  You  have  really  climbed  all  the  way  ? " 
exclaimed  the  Councilor  after  the  first  greet- 
ings. "  My  wife  felt  tired  so  we  came  up  by 
the  funicular  railway." 

"Why  did  you  give  us  away  at  once?" 
complained  Fraulein  Hoppe  to  her  father, 

221 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"we  might  have  had  a  similar  confession 
from  him  in  time/' 

With  the  air  of  a  war-scarred  veteran  I 
pointed  silently  to  my  wet  garments  and  be- 
draggled condition. 

"  Go  directly  to  your  room,  please,"  said 
the  girl,  with  genuine  concern  in  her  voice, 
"  and  let  your  garments  be  dried ;  do  not 
come  forth  till  you  are  wholly  dry."  I  felt 
a  warm  glow  of  pleasure  to  be  under  this 
gentle  violence,  to  find  under  the  child's 
humorous  exterior  the  kindly  heart  of  her 
mother.  The  porter  led  me  to  a  chamber 
that  was  all  bed  and  that  bed  in  a  chill  per- 
spiration. I  lifted  the  bulky  feather  quilt  and 
recoiled  as  I  touched  the  sheets ;  they  were 
cold  and  damp.  The  double  windows  failed 
to  keep  out  the  moisture  in  this  abode  of 
clouds. 

The  gaunt  frame  of  an  iron  heating  oven 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  naturally  suggested  a 
fire,  which  I  ordered  at  once.  The  porter 

211 


The  Brocken 


nodded,  then  wavered  for  a  moment,  as 
though  he  were  about  to  commit  a  dis- 
honest act. 

"The  Herr  is  aware,"  he  finally  blurted 
out,  virtue  triumphant,  "that  a  fire  costs  a 
mark?" 

"  Are  all  the  rooms  like  this  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Some  are  not  so  good,"  he  replied. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "if  you  had  three  stoves 
here  I  should  order  three  fires." 

The  expression  on  his  countenance  told 
me  that  he  must  meet  with  many  odd  fish 
even  here  in  the  clouds. 

The  maid  took  my  boots  to  the  more  busi- 
ness-like fire  in  the  kitchen,  as  their  condition 
demanded,  and  brought  me  a  pair  of  felt 
slippers  in  their  room.  I  warmed  the  sheets 
by  my  own  stove,  hung  my  wet  clothes  about 
it,  and  crept  into  the  bed  quite  spent  with  the 
day's  walk.  Bits  of  cloud  came  wandering  in 
through  the  chink  of  open  window  and  melted 
away  as  my  oven  kept  warming  to  its  work. 

223 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

Fatigue  overcame  me,  and  I  fell  into  a  golden 
dreamless  sleep. 

By  rights  I  should  have  been  dreaming  of 
demons  and  gnomes  and  witches  whose  tra- 
ditional home  I  was  then  invading.  The  very 
name  Brocken  connotes  the  Devil  and  witch- 
craft wherever  the  German  tongue  is  spoken. 
On  the  eve  of  Walpurgis,  that  frenzied  night 
of  Satanic  revelry,  German  youths  playfully 
put  broomsticks  and  besoms  at  the  girls'  doors, 
and  the  next  day  tease  them  about  their  eerie 
ride  to  the  Brocken  orgie.  For  it  is  the  way 
of  the  dominant  sex  to  hold  that  only  the 
women  are  given  to  witchcraft.  As  the 
wizard's  chorus  in  Faust  has  it, 

Denn  geht  es  zu  des  Bosen  Haus, 
Das  Weib  hat  tausend  Schritt  voraus. 

When  towards  the  Devil's  House  we  tread 
Woman  's  a  thousand  steps  ahead.1 

Yet  men,  too,  are  known  to  throw  in  one 
another's  teeth  such  remarks  as,  "  Had  I  not 

1  Translated  by  Bayard  Taylor. 
224 


The  Brocken 


lent  you  my  roan,  or  my  black  mare,  you 
should  now  still  be  lying  on  the  Brocken." 
Or,  one  asks  another  to  return  him  a  debt  of 
money.  "  What  money  ? ' '  asks  the  bewildered 
debtor.  "What  money!  "is  the  reply.  "Don't 
you  know  that  you  would  still  be  held  by  the 
Devil  on  the  Brocken,  had  I  not  paid  your 
tavern  score?"  Every  child  knows  the  first 
of  May  to  be  the  wild  Walpurgis  night,  and 
in  his  dreams  the  grisly  witches  whirl  on 
goat  or  pitchfork,  broom  or  goose,  all  flying 
Brocken  ward.  The  revel  is  held  for  the  double 
purpose  of  doing  homage  to  Mephisto  and 
of  stamping  down  the  last  of  the  winter's 
snow.  A  savage  and  unholy  dance  it  is,  as 
many  an  old  man  in  the  Hartz  describes  it. 
By  some  ruse,  or  through  the  favor  of  some 
witch,  those  masculine  intruders  lay  claim 
to  having  seen  that  which  no  male  eye  is 
ordinarily  permitted  to  see.  To  this  day  every 
cat  in  the  Hartz  is  deemed  to  be  a  witch  on 
the  first  of  May.  Goethe  has  summarized  all 

225 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

the  Brockenlore  in  his  celebrated  cantata 
"  Walpurgisnacht." 

"  Die  Hexen  zu  dem  Brocken  ziehn, 
Die  Stoppel  ist  gelb,  die  Saat  ist  grim. 
Dort  sammelt  sich  der  grosse  Hauf, 
Herr  Urian  sitz  oben  auf." 

The  witches  ride  to  the  Brocken's  top, 
The  stubble  is  yellow  and  green  the  crop. 
There  gathers  the  crowd  for  carnival, 
Sir  Urian  sits  over  all. 

All  the  wild  tales  told  of  the  Brocken 
to-day  are  of  those  grisly  trains  and  eerie 
rides  and  whirling  dances : 

"  The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long ; 
See,  what  a  wild  and  crazy  throng !  " 

And  whoever  is  allowed  to  gaze  on  the  rev- 
els sees  what  Goethe  has  already  described, 
"  witchhood's  swarms  of  wantonness/'  and 
how  in  the  words  of  Mephistopheles, 

"  They  crowd  and  push,  they  roar  and  clatter ! 
They  whirl  and  whistle,  pull  and  chatter." 

No   new   discoveries   relating    to    Brocken 

226 


The  Brocken 


witchcraft  have  been  made  since  Goethe's 
day. 

Time  was  when  to  mount  the  Brocken 
was  deemed  a  formidable  enterprise.  The 
first  known  Brocken  climber  was  a  Sixteenth 
Century  cartographer,  Tileman  Stoltz,  who 
ascended  the  peak  in  1560.  A  duke,  Henry 
Julius  of  Brunswick,  caused  a  road  to  be  hewn 
through  the  forest  and  adventurously  took 
his  young  Duchess,  Elisabeth  of  Denmark, 
to  the  top  so  that  she  might  behold  at  one 
glance  the  greater  part  of  his  domain.  That 
road  is  now  overgrown  and  wholly  lost. 
Peter  the  Great  of  Russia  visited  the  Brocken 
in  1697.  Eighty  years  later  Goethe  made 
the  ascent  in  midwinter  and  the  result  was 
his  noble  philosophical  poem  "  Harzreise  im 
Winter/'  and  not  improbably  his  conception 
of  Walpurgis  night  in  "  Faust."  By  the  time 
Heine  climbed  the  Brocken,  half  a  century 
later,  tourists  had  already  begun  to  mount 
it  in  considerable  numbers.  As  early  as  the 

227 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

year  1800  the  then  Duke  of  Stolberg-Wer- 
nigerode  had  built  the  Brockenhaus,  which 
is  to  this  day  property  of  that  house,  and 
conducted  as  an  hotel  in  its  interest.  Since 
Heine's  day  the  house  has  been  much  en- 
larged. 

I  was  awakened  from  my  nap  by  the  por- 
ter who  brought  word  from  Herr  Hoppe 
that  the  sun  was  emerging,  and  I  was  bid- 
den to  come  to  the  tower.  Indeed,  through 
the  window  came  no  longer  bits  of  drifting 
mist  but  somewhat  pale  rays  of  cold  sun- 
shine. Hastily  I  tumbled  into  my  clothes, 
called  for  my  boots  from  the  kitchen  and 
made  for  the  top  of  the  circular  observation 
tower  that  stands  beside  the  house.  A  hand- 
ful of  people  were  gathered  there  with  tele- 
scopes and  opera  glasses,  and  among  them 
were  my  friends.  Frau  Hoppe  greeted  me 
with  her  usual  air  of  gentle,  maternal  inter- 
est and  her  amiable  daughter  looked  at  my 
eyes  and  murmured,  — 

228 


The  Brocken 

"  What  a  pity  to  wake  a  sleeping  child!  " 
The  clouds  were  breaking  up  and  the  sun 
kept  gaining  the  upper  hand  and  throwing 
its  oblique  rays  upon  the  bald  top  of  the 
mountain.  It  was  sharply  cold  and  those 
who  had  wraps  wore  them  and  still  seemed 
chilled.  But  the  farther  the  mists  drifted 
horizonward,  the  more  oblivious  did  we  be- 
come of  the  cold.  For  before  our  eyes  was 
spreading  such  a  panorama  as  most  of  us  had 
never  seen  anywhere  else.  Round  about  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  lay  the  tiny  villages 
like  children  nestling  to  the  bosom  of  a 
mother.  The  dark  hills,  in  wavelike  lines 
of  a  wonderful  rhythmic  symmetry  sur- 
rounded the  Brocken  as  so  many  courtiers 
surround  a  prince.  High  as  they  had  seemed 
before,  when  I  was  wandering  among  them, 
they  were  now  lowly  enough  as  they  surged 
about  the  knees  of  regal  Brocken.  Beyond 
the  hills,  on  every  hand,  radiated  outward 
the  bright  green  valleys  dotted  here  and 

229 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

there  with  towns  and  cities,  and  stretching 
horizonward.  The  shining  meadows  and 
golden  corn-lands  of  Germany  decked  out 
the  view;  and  those  thread-like  silver  bound- 
aries between  them,  could  they  be  the 
streams  that  made  such  a  to-do  in  the 
gorges  ?  North  and  West  was  the  clearest 
view  and  the  most  glorious.  To  the  south- 
east the  land  was  somewhat  darkened  by  the 
shadow  cast  by  the  Brocken.  There  were  few 
exclamations  ;  every  one  stood  riveted  to  the 
spot,  like  a  clothed  statue,  gazing  at  the  un- 
folding vista.  Fraulein  Hoppe  looked  with 
a  radiant  face  and  two  great  tears  trickled 
down  her  cheeks.  All  seemed  transfig- 
ured, and  it  flashed  through  my  mind  what  a 
wonderful  sight  is  the  human  countenance, 
once  it  is  lifted  above  the  commonplace  ways 
of  mankind.  A  curious  tenderness  comes  to 
your  breast  when  you  behold  the  abodes  of 
men  from  a  height  and  a  distance.  The  hud- 
dling roofs,  the  dim  roads,  the  faint  curls 

230 


The  Brocken 


of  smoke  —  with  a  kind  of  gentle  pity  you 
look  upon  all  the  little  concerns  of  man, 
simply  and  patiently  working  out  his  destiny 
in  the  valley.  After  all  my  toil  through  sun- 
shine and  storm  to  mount  the  peak  and  look 
on  the  valley  from  an  eminence,  I  now  felt 
a  pang  of  longing  to  flutter  down  to  the 
snug  towns  and  villages,  set  among  the  deep 
green  meadows,  and  washed  by  the  flashing 
streams.  So  wayward  a  thing  is  the  human 
heart. 

Darkness  came  on  apace,  swiftly  blotted 
out  the  view,  and  soon  the  clouds  returned 
to  their  own  and  enveloped  us  like  a  cling- 
ing mantle.  The  nipping  air  drove  us  from 
the  tower,  and  upon  the  ground,  still  gazing 
westward,  we  saw  a  clump  of  tall,  strong 
young  men.  They  turned  and  looked  at  us; 
suddenly  one  of  them  ran  forward,  and  with 
a  merry  word  of  greeting,  embraced  Frau 
Hoppe  and  the  Councilor.  He  was  about 
to  embrace  their  daughter  as  well,  but  she 

231 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

put  out  her  hand  at  arm's  length  and  said, 
"  Wie  gehts  dir,  Fritz  ?  " 

Fritz  Eichholtz,  to  whom  I  was  promptly 
introduced,  was  a  nephew  of  Frau  Hoppe's, 
a  university  student  of  Berlin,  and  he  rapidly 
informed  us  that  he  and  some  members  of 
his  corps  were  on  their  way  to  Harzburg  to 
a  junket  of  that  association  whose  caps  were 
blue.  Those  of  his  chapter  who  were  with 
him  had  decided  to  sleep  that  night  upon 
the  Brocken,  and  as  there  would  be  a  kneipe 
or  drinking  session  held  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  the  youths  invited  the  Councilor 
and  myself  to  join  them. 

"After  my  wife  and  daughter  are  gone 
to  bed,  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  the  Coun- 
cilor eagerly.  "  In  the  meanwhile  do  you, 
Fritze,  dine  with  us."  The  presence  of  the 
ladies  obviously  eliminated  the  possibility 
of  a  consolidation  of  the  two  parties.  The 
young  man  consulted  with  his  friends,  then 
sat  down  with  us  in  the  large  gloomy  din- 

232 


The  Brocken 


ing-room.  The  students  were  dining  in  a 
smaller  room  by  themselves  and  every  now 
and  then  a  roar  of  laughter  would  come  to 
us  from  that  direction,  followed  by  bustling 
waiters  grinning,  broadly.  Young  Eichholtz 
would  pause  and  listen  to  the  sounds  of  the 
revelers  and  remark  chuckling, 

"  The  boys  are  doing  well  —  famous 
lads ! " 

"You  would  prefer  to  be  with  them,  I 
know,"  Frau  Hoppe  gently  observed  from 
time  to  time.  But  he  vowed  he  was  wholly 
happy,  and  regaled  us  with  an  account  of  a 
duel  fought  at  the  rooms  of  the  blue-caps 
at  Berlin  on  the  Saturday,  in  which  their 
man,  though  bleeding  from  eighteen  cuts, 
was  victorious. 

"  Confess,  Fritze,"  said  Fraulein  Hoppe, 
"that you  are  anxious  to  promote  that  fright- 
ful dueling  because  you  are  studying  sur- 
gery." 

"  No ;  we  receive  no  fees  from  brothers," 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

laughed  Fritz;  "besides,  I  have  bled  my- 
self." 

Upon  learning  my  nationality  the  youth 
informed  me  that  in  his  party  was  an  Amer- 
ican army  officer  who  was  an  alumnus  of 
Berlin  and  a  brother  of  the  corps. 

When  Eichholtz  introduced  us  to  the 
room  of  the  students  the  laughter  suddenly 
ceased  as  though  a  word  of  command  had 
been  given.  The  dozen  of  men  with  narrow, 
peaked,  blue  caps  on  their  heads  and  sashes 
of  the  same  color  over  their  breasts,  rose  as 
one  man,  and,  after  Eichholtz  had  pro- 
nounced our  names,  each  one  in  turn  ut- 
tered his  own  name,  bowed,  lifted  his  cap 
and  shook  hands.  The  Major  proved  to  be 
an  acquaintance  and  he  passed  me  the  word 
in  American  slang  that  this  was  to  be  a  joy- 
ous occasion.  The  stocky  square-jawed  young 
man  at  the  head  of  the  table  made  room  for 
the  Councilor  on  his  right  and  for  myself 
on  his  left  next  the  Major. 
234 


The  Brocken 


"  Silentium !  "  he  cried,  rapping  for  order 
upon  the  table  with  the  flat  of  a  bare  sabre, 
"  Silentium  !  Turn  to  page  226  and  sing  the 
Burse henlied.  First  verse !  "  In  tolerable  har- 
mony they  began  a  famous  student  song, 

"  The  Bursch  with  proper  stuff  in  him, 
He  must  be  always  jolly  !  " 

With  powerful  throats  and  glowing  faces 
they  sang  many  verses  of  this  stirring  patri- 
otic song  and  their  effort  seemed  to  demand 
no  small  quantity  of  refreshment  afterward. 
The  song  ended,  the  chairman  with  a  few 
courteous  words  handed  his  cap  and  his  sabre 
to  Herr  Hoppe  and  bade  him  take  his  place. 
The  Councilor  seemed  to  the  manner  born. 
Promptly  he  rapped  for  order  and  proposed 
another  song. 

"  Silentium  for  the  Privy  Councilor  !  " 
they  all  cried  delightedly  and  broke  into 
the  rollicking  song  he  proposed.  The  Ge- 
heimrath's  face  beamed  with  pleasure  and 
he  seemed  a  boy  again,  despite  his  gray  hair, 

335 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

among  these  incorrigible  boys,  the  stalwart 
German  students.  Every  German  seems  to 
have  this  faculty  of  throwing  care  to  the  winds 
and  assuming  the  spirits  of  youth.  Healths 
were  drunk  and  "  salamanders  rubbed/'  all 
in  this  pitch  of  joy.  (A  salamander  is  drunk 
standing,  by  command,  and  after  the  glasses 
are  drained  their  bottoms  are  rattled  in  uni- 
son against  the  table  and  all  put  down  finally 
with  a  crash  on  the  board.) 

The  Major,  as  the  brother  from  overseas, 
was  allowed  the  privilege,  when  he  took 
the  chair,  to  conduct  the  singing  of  the  most 
widely  known  of  all  the  Burschen-songs  — 
"  Gaudeamus  igitur  juvenes  dum  sumus," 
which  was  trolled  out  with  such  vim  by  those 
lusty  voices  that  all  the  windows  rattled. 
Somewhere  on  the  Brocken  certain  laborers, 
who  were  engaged  in  building  an  addition 
to  the  house,  grew  emulous  of  the  students 
and  their  tired  voices  reached  us  in  a  chorus 
pathetically  faint  and  weary  during  the  pauses 

236 


The  Brocken 

of  our  song.  The  kindly  blue-caps  sent  out 
the  materials  for  a  health  to  the  workmen 
and  in  response  to  their  faint  cheer  burst 
into  a  ringing  ditty  anciently  sung  by  the 
Pappenheim  troops. 

"  Or  at  beer  or  at  wine 
Jolly  Pappenheimers  must  we  be  !  " 

Later  their  hospitality  went  so  far  as  to  ask 
even  me  to  assume  the  sabre  of  leadership. 
With  strange  gusto  I  found  myself  calling 
for  "silentium"  and  leading  in  a  comic  song 
about  death.  The  hour  was  growing  late ; 
Herr  Hoppe  and  myself  pleaded  the  fatigue 
of  a  long  day's  march,  and  under  much  genial 
protestation  we  parted  with  our  unquench- 
able hosts. 

We  were  hoping  for  sunshine  on  the  mor- 
row, but  the  night,  when  we  peered  into  it, 
promised  nothing.  A  cool  blanket  of  thick 
cloud  met  our  warm  faces  as  we  opened  the 
house-door,  and  we  could  not  see  a  foot  be- 
fore us.  The  wind  howled  most  dismally 

23? 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

about  the  windows  and  shrieked  savagely 
into  chimney  and  cornice.  Now  and  then 
snatches  of  song  were  grotesquely  mingled 
with  its  cries  and  wailings ;  spurts  of  rain 
whipped  the  panes  from  time  to  time,  all 
of  which  made  it  difficult  to  fall  asleep.  It 
was  exactly  the  night  for  a  witches'  revel, 
and  no  better  or  lovelier  spot  could  be  found 
in  all  Germany.  I  now  understood  why  the 
Brocken  was  the  altar  of  witchcraft. 

In  the  morning  we  could  see  a  dim  silver 
disk  making  brave  though  vain  attempts  to 
dissipate  the  cloud-bank.  The  west  wind, 
too,  did  all  that  it  could,  but  the  masses  of 
oddly  shaped  cloud  that  ever  sped  before  it 
seemed  inexhaustible. 

Herr  Hoppe,  who  was  already  abroad, 
jocularly  asked  me  whether  I  had  seen  the 
sunrise. 

"  Lest  my  daughter  tease  you  about  it," 
he  added,  "I  will  tell  you  privately  that 
there  has  been  no  sunrise." 

238 


The  Brocken 

"Very  well,"  said  I,  "then  I  shall  paint 
for  her  the  sunrise  she  missed." 

But  when  Fraulein  Hoppe  joined  us  I 
had  not  the  heart  to  tease  her,  for  this  was 
probably  the  last  time  I  should  see  her.  She 
was  herself  in  somewhat  serious  mood  and 
very  candidly  informed  me  that  she  had 
enough  of  tramping  for  one  summer  and 
heartily  wished  herself  back  at  her  home 
near  Dresden,  where  the  roses  climbed  in  at 
her  window.  She  asked  whether  I  had  ever 
been  to  Dresden. 

"No,"  said  I,  "but  that  is  precisely  where 
I  am  going  after  my  Hartz  journey  is  over." 

Herr  Hoppe  was  out  of  earshot.  We 
looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  but 
Fraulein  Hoppe  said  nothing. 

The  morning  train  brought  a  handful  of 
freezing  people  who  fell  frantically  to  ad- 
dressing picture  postcards  as  though  their 
life  depended  upon  it.  The  students,  some- 
what the  worse  for  wear,  began  to  appear  in 

239 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

the  guest-room,  and  soon  departed  with  the 
postcard  regiment  on  the  funicular.  Very 
thin  was  the  "public"  on  the  Brocken  that 
morning.  In  Heine's  day  the  romantic  move- 
ment in  Germany  was  in  full  swing ;  he, 
therefore,  was  enabled  to  record  sad  stories 
of  passionate  love  and  weeping  apostrophes 
to  the  moon  on  the  part  of  some  of  the 
guests.  The  modern  tourist,  though  still  sen- 
timental enough  to  come  to  the  Brocken, 
no  longer  apostrophizes  the  moon.  The  pic- 
ture postcard  passion  and  the  funicular  are 
the  best  index  to  the  times. 

"  It  is  odd,"  said  Fraulein  Hoppe,  when 
I  spoke  to  her  of  this,  "that  the  witches 
still  employ  broomsticks  and  pitchforks,  out- 
grown forms  of  locomotion,  when  they  could 
buy  excursion  tickets  on  the  funicular." 

The  Hoppes  left  me  and  a  few  moments 
later  the  pleasant  trio  appeared  with  ruck- 
sack and  staff,  fully  accoutred  for  their  jour- 
ney to  Harzburg.  A  whole  romantic  litera- 

240. 


The  Brocken 

ture  of  melancholy  filled  me  as  I  saw  my 
friends  departing. 

"  Come  and  visit  us  when  you  are  at  Dres- 
den," the  Geheimrath  urged  as  he  warmly 
pressed  my  hand.  "Under  her  own  roof  this 
child  will  not  tease  you,"  he  added,  glancing 
at  his  daughter  with  a  twinkling  eye. 

"  Oh,  but  I  trust  she  will,"  I  put  in  has- 
tily. 

"  Please  do  not  fail  us,"  gently  entreated 
Frau  Hoppe ;  "we  shall  depend  upon  your 
coming  and  be  ready  to  receive  you." 

Fraulein  Hoppe  merely  nodded  as  if  in 
confirmation  of  her  mother's  words.  In  her 
eyes  was  a  look  at  once  soft  and  brilliant. 
She  put  out  her  little  gloved  hand  almost 
timidly,  merely  murmuring, 

"  Auf  iviedersehen"  and  I  knew  we  should 
meet  again. 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 


CHAPTER   XVII 


Icb  bin  die  Prinzessin  Use 
Und  wohne  im  Ihenstein  ; 
Komm'  mit  nacb  meinem  Schlosse^ 
Wir  wollen  selig  sein. 

HEINE. 

HEINE  was  favored  with  a  sunrise  on 
the  Brocken  of  which  he  gives  a  vivid 
picture  in  verse  and  prose.  All  hope  of  see- 
ing the  sun  this  day,  however,  seemed  futile. 
I  merely  waited  until  the  clouds  should  grow 
a  little  less  dense  before  I  set  out  toward  II- 
senburg  alone.  As  I  remained  thus  musing 
in  the  guest-room  familiar  voices  suddenly 
fell  upon  my  ears  and  I  looked  up  to  behold 
my  three  clerks  of  Goslar  approaching.  They 
had  but  recently  arrived  and  were  now  about 
to  turn  their  faces  to  Ilsenburg.  They  had 
little  to  tell  me  of  what  had  befallen  them 

242 


The  Princess  Use 


since  we  parted  at  the  Kaiserworth  in  Gos- 
lar  save  that  all  they  had  seen  was  "schon" 
and  "kolossal."  Their  knapsacks  were  not 
any  fuller  than  before,  nor  their  linen  cleaner. 
As  they  sat  a  few  moments  longer  conspir- 
ing against  future  thirst  I  went  to  the  lobby, 
if  one  may  so  designate  the  chill  hallway  of 
that  house,  to  enter  my  name  in  the  Brocken 
book.  This  guest-book  even  in  Heine's  day 
"  contained  nonsense  enough."  Since  his  visit 
many  tomes  of  that  commodity  have  been 
imported  to  the  Brocken  and  there  deposited 
by  the  hosts  of  the  Philistines.  A  century 
makes  but  little  change  in  the  cast  of  their 
minds.  To-day,  even  as  a  hundred  years  ago, 
people  complain  of  the  thick  clouds,  the 
rain,  their  wet  feet.  Doggerel  abounds,  and 
it  is  mostly  on  the  order  of  this  flower  of 
poesy  which  I  culled: 

"  Auf  dem  Brocken  ist  es  schon, 
Auf  dem  Brocken  ist  es  fein  ; 
Ach,  konnt  ich  hier  doch  immer  sein  ! " 

243 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

"  On  the  Brocken  it 's  sweet, 
On  the  Brocken  it 's  clear ; 
Ach,  I  wish  I  could  stay  forever  up  here ! " 

One  gentleman  from  Leipzig,  who  signed 
himself  "author,"  seized  this  opportunity 
for  publication  and  indited  a  long,  involved 
poem  upon  the  beauties  of  untamed  nature. 
It  was  not  a  masterpiece  of  originality  or 
wisdom.  Under  that  gem  I  felt  moved  to 
write  that  on  this  day  I  took  possession  of 
the  Brocken  in  the  name  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  of  Spain.  The  three  clerks  now 
came  forth  from  the  guest-room,  and  after 
each  had  religiously  entered  a  "  sentiment " 
in  the  book,  we  turned  our  backs  upon  the 
Brockenhaus.  In  Heine's  time  it  was  cus- 
tomary for  the  servant-maids  to  present  a 
posy  of  flowers  to  each  departing  guest. 
But  to-day  the  young  women  selling  fans, 
paper-weights  and  other  mementoes  in  the 
hallway  are  far  too  busy  with  their  traffic 
to  practice  any  such  pretty  customs. 

244 


The  Princess  Use 


We  marched  briskly  into  the  cloud,  past 
the  Schneelocber,  deep  gullies  that  drop  down 
abruptly  making  the  path  precipitous.  In 
these  gullies  the  snow  lingers  until  late  in 
the  spring  and  disappears  only  after  the 
witches  stamp  it  down  on  the  first  of  May. 
We  four,  the  clerks  and  I,  bounded  from 
rock  to  rock  with  enforced  rapidity.  One 
of  the  men  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  any- 
body could  be  a  mountain-goat  here,  for 
you  could  not  help  leaping  from  crag  to 
crag.  In  a  very  short  space  of  time  the 
bushes  and  ground-pines  began  to  grow 
taller.  The  air  was  perceptibly  warmer  and 
the  clouds  were  overhead  instead  of  all  about 
us.  We  met  a  number  of  small  parties  as- 
cending and  almost  all  inquired  with  pant- 
ing breath  how  much  they  had  still  to 
climb. 

"A  good  two  hours,"  one  of  the  clerks 
would  reply  and  watch  the  depressing  effect 
upon  the  inquirer's  countenance.  A  few 

245 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

steps   farther   on   the   clerks   would   laugh 
heartily  at  this  humor. 

We  were  among  the  pines  again  before 
long ;  the  delicious,  mysterious  murmur  of 
underground  waters  seemed  to  come  to 
us  from  every  side.  "  Here  and  there,"  in 
Heine's  picturesque  phrases,  "from  under 
rock  or  brush,  the  water  would  glance  forth, 
as  though  gently  speculating  whether  or  not 
it  dared  to  face  the  daylight.  Then,  with  a 
resolute  leap,  a  little  torrent  would  come  to 
the  surface.  Many  others  soon  join,  and  to- 
gether they  form  that  most  cheerful  of  all 
mountain  streams,  the  swift-flowing  Use." 
Heine's  comparison  of  this  little  river  to  a 
lively  girl  is  perhaps  the  aptest  of  all  such 
similes.  The  bright  waters,  now  leaping 
down  tiny  falls,  now  singing  and  foaming 
merrily  round  scattered  rocks  in  their  course, 
give  precisely  that  impression  of  a  maiden 
briskly  busying  herself  about  her  pretty  af- 
fairs. The  pines  and  beeches  and  birches 
246 


The  Princess  Use 


tower  over  road  and  stream,  nodding  to- 
gether high  overhead  and  making  an  avenue 
that  the  fairest  and  costliest  of  English  parks 
might  envy.  My  three  companions  laughed 
and  shouted  like  children,  leaped  upon  rocks 
in  the  course  of  the  Use  and  begged  to  be 
photographed.  The  birds  mingled  their  song 
with  the  laughter  of  the  men,  and  such  was 
the  state  of  our  delight,  we  could  then  and 
there  have  proved  to  Schopenhauer  that  this 
was  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds.  The  Prin- 
cess Use  who,  according  to  legend,  bathes  in 
this  stream,  had  truly  cast  her  spell  upon  us, 
even  as  of  old  she  had  bewitched  Henry  the 
Fowler,  and  Heine,  the  poet,  who  sang  of 

her : 

"  I  am  the  Princess  Use,1 
I  dwell  at  Ilsenstein  ; 
Come  to  my  castle  with  me, 
Bliss  shall  be  thine  and  mine. 

"  With  water  of  my  fountain 
Will  I  bedew  thy  brow, 

1  Translated  by  T.  Brooksbank. 
247 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

And  thou  shalt  forget  thy  sorrows 
Poor  lad,  so  care-sick  now." 

The  Ilsenstein,  a  great  granite  rock  beetling 
over  the  road,  is  surmounted  by  an  iron 
cross  to  which  Heine  was  obliged  to  cling 
when  he  climbed  the  rock.  Neither  the 
clerks  nor  I  felt  moved  to  ascend  the  Ilsen- 
stein. We  entered  the  town  of  Ilsenburg, 
which  seemed  to  be  gently  slumbering  on 
both  banks  of  the  Use.  There  was  scarce  a 
human  being  to  be  seen  as  we  marched 
along  the  somnolent  street;  the  Use  alone 
seemed  possessed  of  any  life.  Trim  little 
houses  gray  with  age  and  trim  little  gardens 
bright  with  flowers  about  them  lined  the 
street,  as  if  they  alone,  without  any  human 
aid,  were  Ilsenburg's  citizens,  Mayor  and 
corporation.  At  a  cross-road  my  clerks 
shook  hands  in  the  friendliest  manner  and 
took  their  way  Harzburg  while  I  walked 
on  to  an  hotel. 

"  The  Herr  will  not  forget  to  send  us  the 
248 


The  Princess  Use 


pictures  he  took  of  us!"  was  the  last  I  heard 
from  them  as  I  waved  my  hand.  A  few  steps 
brought  me  to  the  Hotel  at  the  Red  Trout, 
and  as  I  entered  its  silent,  leafy  grounds,  I 
felt  as  though  I  had  joined  a  brotherhood. 

A  sort  of  enchantment  seemed  to  lie  upon 
the  spacious  and  picturesque  inn,  upon  the 
soft  lawns  and  shrubbery,  upon  the  mirror- 
like  lagoon  that  stretched  along  one  side  of 
this  Land  of  Nod.  A  solemn  waiter,  still 
fastening  his  apron,  came  from  the  kitchen 
to  my  seat  under  a  shade  tree  and  said,  not 
asked, 

"  Sie  iviinscben  Fore  lien." 

I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  in  a  dream.  For 
a  few  moments  I  gazed  at  him  without  feel- 
ing able  to  utter  a  sound.  At  last  I  repeated 
mechanically  in  his  own  words, 

"  Yes,  I  desire  trout." 

Whereupon  he  brought  up  two  live  trout 
from  a  net  in  the  lagoon  and  carried  them 
silently  into  the  kitchen. 

249 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

I  sat  gazing  upon  the  unbroken  surface 
of  the  water  and  the  one  thought  that  strug- 
gled to  my  brain  through  the  seas  of  out-of- 
doors  stupidity  and  sheer  physical  well-being 
that  possessed  me,  was : 

"  My  journey  is  at  an  end." 

Much  of  the  Hartz  lay  still  before  me.  I 
knew  I  was  going  on  to  Wernigerode  as  soon 
as  I  had  finished  with  the  trout,  and  that  I 
should  probably  go  farther  still ;  yet  I  could 
not  away  with  the  feeling  that  my  journey 
was  done ;  even  as  Heine's  Harzreise  had 
ended  at  Ilsenburg.  I  shook  myself  from 
this  strange  hypnotic  lethargy  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  side  of  the  sleeping  lagoon 
until  my  trout  should  be  brought.  The  Prin- 
cess Use,  I  reflected,  she  of  the  spells  and 
witchcraft,  was  still  at  her  arts,  else  why 
should  I  feel  this  sense  of  culmination  after 
having  walked  through  her  garden  ? 

When  I  tasted  of  the  trout  I  realized  that 
never  again,  even  though  a  long  life  may 

250 


The  Princess  Use 


await  me,  should  I  partake  of  such  a  godlike 
dish  as  that  on  the  Saturday  in  August,  Zum 
Roten  Forellen  !  If  that  is  what  the  Prin- 
cess feeds  on,  small  wonder  she  survives  for- 
ever. In  somewhat  brighter  mood  I  paid  the 
score,  shouldered  my  knapsack  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  railway  station. 

The  settled  look  of  the  place  was  whole- 
some to  the  eye,  and  though  I  saw  much 
poverty  even  here,  it  was  a  spacious  and 
roomy  poverty  that  one  might  envy.  Not 
here  the  hideous  oppressive  squalor  of  our 
glorious  cities,  that  makes  your  cheek  flush 
and  your  heart  ache,  nor  that  painful,  abject 
misery  that  you  see  so  often  "by  Bagdad's 
shrines  of  fretted  gold  " ;  there  was  genuine 
beauty  about  the  humble  homes  of  the  poor 
at  Ilsenburg. 

The  train,  for  which  I  had  not  long  to 
wait,  carried  me  through  a  beautiful  region 
with  yellow  grainfields  on  the  one  hand  and 
the  green  hills  on  the  other  to  the  Capital 

251 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

of  their  Transparencies,  the  Princes  of  Stol- 
berg-Wernigerode,  who  have  reigned  here 
for  nearly  a  thousand  years.  Long  before 
you  reach  the  city,  their  castle  perched  high 
upon  a  rock  shows  its  gray  walls  and  many 
windows  to  you  with  a  benevolent  though 
exclusive  air.  The  loveliest  of  Hartz  cities 
(Goslar  excepted)  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
princely  rock  and  an  attentive  welcome 
awaits  you  at  the  inn  of  the  Weisser  Hirsch. 
No  parlor  could  be  cleaner  than  the  broad 
shaded  streets  I  walked;  no  people  could 
appear  more  cheerful  or  contented  than  the 
smiling  inhabitants  of  Wernigerode.  Gentle 
breezes  seem  to  play  all  day  among  the  shade 
trees,  and  a  spirit  of  quiet  joy  hangs  over 
all.  The  legend  over  the  door  of  the  en- 
chanting Rathaus,  built  in  1500,  seems  to 
express  the  city's  charming  air  of  sphinx- 
like  peace.  The  legend  reads :  "  Einer  acht '/, 
der  Andre  vertacbt's,  der  Dritte  betrachfs,  was 
machfs?"  "One  thinks,  the  next  blinks, 

252 


THE  CASTLE  OF  WERNIGERODE 


The  Princess  Use 


the  third  will  brood;  what's  the  good?" 
The  ceiling  of  the  Ratskeller,  deep  in  the 
foundations  of  the  Rathaus,  is  covered  with 
wise  sayings.  It  is  perhaps  the  only  Rat- 
skeller in  Germany  that  countenances,  how 
disdainfully  soever,  possible  abstinence.  "  If 
you  will  not  drink  beer,"  reads  one  Sprue b, 
"drink  springwater  and  so  strong  will  you 
be  no  Kater  will  conquer  you."  As  Kater 
means  both  tom-cat  and  the  after-effects  of 
over-indulgence,  the  spirit  of  Wernigerode 
is  well  expressed  in  the  saying.  I  made  plans 
for  visiting  the  Church  and  the  Castle  on 
the  morrow,  and  for  journeying  to  another 
famous  region,  the  Riibeland,  and  thence  to 
Quedlinburg;  I  visited  the  old  house  where 
Goethe  put  up  when  he  made  this  journey 
in  1777  and  determined  that  on  the  Mon- 
day I  should  have  it  photographed.  Alto- 
gether I  had  begun  to  feel  that  this  was  a 
place  worth  clinging  to. 

That  evening  at  dinner,  however,  I  was 
253 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

again  overcome  with  the  feeling  that  I  should 
not  travel  farther  in  the  Hartz.  The  first 
English-speaking  family  I  had  seen  in  many 
days,  consisting  of  a  middle-aged  man  and 
two  women,  seemingly  his  wife  and  her  sis- 
ter, sat  at  a  table  near  me  and  talked  of  the 
Riibeland.  I  was  all  but  on  the  point  of 
hailing  them  as  fellow  countrymen ;  they,  I 
thought,  would  help  dispel  this  singular  hu- 
mor that  beset  me.  The  man,  however,  sud- 
denly launched  into  a  disquisition  upon  the 
English  parts  of  speech  with  a  voice  so  drawl- 
ing and  dreary  that  his  wife  frankly  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  fell  asleep ;  the  sister 
made  a  brave  attempt  at  following  him,  but 
soon  she  too  began  to  nod.  That  man  was 
obviously  an  instructor  of  youth.  Youth  alone 
can  withstand  and  even  forget  such  streams 
of  boredom.  Grown  folk  wilt  before  it  as 
tender  plants  before  an  evil  wind. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  Hartz  sleep  did 
not  deal  with  me  beneficently.   It  did  not 


The  Princess  Use 


visit  me  at  all  for  a  long  time,  and  was 
but  fitful  when  it  came.  Wild  dreams  raced 
through  my  brain,  and  when  I  arose  at  an 
absurdly  early  hour  in  the  morning,  my  mind 
was  possessed  with  one  Idea  —  to  go  back 
to  Gdttingen  and  thence  to  Dresden.  I  felt 
I  was  sated  with  beauty,  and  that  to  make 
it  mine  forever  I  must  not  absorb  more  im- 
pressions. The  soul  requires  rest  from  beauty, 
it  seemed  to  me,  as  the  body  from  work. 
Flight  was  the  idea  uppermost  within  me. 
Riibeland,  the  Castle  —  I  felt  less  than  in- 
difference for  them ;  but  all  the  past  journey 
glowed  in  fresh  brilliant  colors. 

The  porter  who  served  me  with  coffee 
said  he  had  but  just  dispatched  the  omnibus 
with  another  guest  to  the  station  for  the 
seven  ^o'clock  train.  Not  a  cab  or  vehicle 
of  any  sort  was  to  be  seen  in  the  empty  sun- 
kissed  square.  I  seized  my  knapsack  and 
cane,  asked  the  direction  to  the  station,  and 
ran  the  entire  way,  my  rucksack  shaking 

255 


In  the  Footprints  of  Heine 

heavily  upon  my  back.  All  that  day  I  trav- 
eled small  distances  in  shuttle  trains  from 
station  to  station,  for  there  are  no  express 
trains  in  this  region  on  a  Sunday.  Impa- 
tiently I  paced  each  platform  while  waiting 
for  the  next  train,  until,  at  last,  when  I  was 
actually  on  the  train  from  Kreiensen  to  Got- 
tingen,  I  felt  somewhat  more  at  ease.  All 
my  wanderings  and  all  the  wonderful  things 
I  had  seen  passed  like  a  panorama  before  my 
mind.  With  what  a  different  eye  did  I  look 
upon  Gottingen,  upon  the  inn  Zur  Krone, 
upon  the  waiters  who  gave  me  my  mail ! 
They,  too,  seemed  to  feel  that  I  was  no 
longer  the  same  person  who  left  them,  but 
in  a  sort,  a  pious  pilgrim  who  had  accom- 
plished his  quest,  a  palmer  who  had  seen 
many  sacred  places  in  holy  land  and  bore 
within  him  many  blessed  memories. 


THE    END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


HMR 


